“You call it torture?” she scoffed. “She was already broken. Always crying. Always apologizing. Asking permission for everything. I just pushed where she was weak.”
That sentence froze me.
Because a part of it—small and ugly—was true.
Lily had been apologizing more.
For being tired.
For gaining weight.
For going to bed early.
For not “looking good.”
And I… I had thought it was normal.
Pregnancy.
Stress.
I had been wrong.
So terribly wrong.
The police arrived within ten minutes.
The ambulance shortly after.
When the officers entered, Lily panicked at the sight of uniforms. They had to kneel beside her, speaking softly, gently, like she might shatter if they raised their voices. I didn’t leave her side for even a second.
The paramedic examined her, his expression tightening.
“She has severe skin irritation, mild dehydration, and acute anxiety. She needs immediate care. This level of stress is dangerous during pregnancy.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Ashley kept talking.
Lying.
Saying Lily had attacked her. That she was unstable. That she had warned me.
And then Lily whispered, barely audible:
“My phone…”
Everyone turned.