“My Sister Threw a Shoe at My 7-Month-Pregnant Belly—Then My Husband Made ONE Phone Call That Destroyed Her Entire World!”

I hung up. Not dramatically. I just pressed the red button and set the phone face down.

"I keep waiting for her to be my mother," I told Ethan.

He moved his chair close. "You are allowed to stop waiting."

After several hours the contractions settled, and the doctor discharged me with clear instructions to return for bleeding, fluid leakage, reduced fetal movement, or regular contractions. Ethan repeated the instructions back as though memorizing a map home.

When we pulled into our driveway, Mom's silver sedan sat at the curb. Brooke stood beside it with her arms crossed, wearing her pink hoodie and one white sneaker. She'd apparently retrieved the other one.

"Don't get out," Ethan said. "I'll ask them to leave."

"No. I need to say this myself."

I stepped onto the porch, tired and shaky but steady enough. Mom rushed up carrying a casserole dish. She didn't look at my stomach.

"This has gone far enough," she said. "You're going to apologize and let Brooke back into her room."

"No."

The word surprised all three of us.

"Mara, don't be cruel."

"I spent an afternoon in the hospital. She tried to take money from my child. And you want me to make her dinner?"

"She says she didn't touch the account," Mom said.

"Then the investigation will clear her. Until then, she can't stay here."

Brooke stepped forward. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Your mother offered you the apartment above her garage last summer," Ethan said. "That's still an option."

Mom turned to him. "Stay out of family business."

I took Ethan's hand. "He is my family."

Mom's face hardened. "If you choose him over us, don't expect us at the baby shower."

My heart dropped, but I held my ground.

After Mom drove away, Ethan cleaned the porch without saying a word. He set the casserole dish on the counter, unopened. I watched him through the glass and realized that defending someone didn't always look like a shouted threat. Sometimes it looked like clearing a path, checking the front lock, and making sure the person you loved had a quiet place to sit.

"Then you won't be there," I said.