Part 1: The Architecture of Abuse
The living room of my childhood home felt like a courtroom where I was always the defendant. The air was stale, smelling of my father’s expensive cigars and the heavy potpourri my mother used to mask the underlying scent of decay.doom
I sat on the edge of the stiff, floral-patterned armchair, my hands instinctively resting on my stomach. Michael sat beside me, his presence a warm, solid wall against the chill of the room. He reached over and squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my palm.
Across from us, sprawled on the velvet sofa like a queen holding court, was my younger sister, Erica. At twenty-six, she still lived at home, unemployed, unbothered, and radiating a bitter, restless energy. My parents, David and Linda, sat in matching wingback chairs, their expressions guarded, as if bracing themselves for a bill they didn’t want to pay.
“We have big news,” I announced, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
Michael beamed, his whole face lighting up. “We’re having a baby.”
The air went thin. I waited for the smiles, the gasps of joy, the tears. Instead, my mother’s smile was a flicker that died instantly as she glanced nervously at Erica, whose face had darkened into a thundercloud.
“Twelve weeks?” my father frowned, leaning forward. “And you’re just telling us now? Don’t you think family deserves to know first? We had to hear about your promotion from a neighbor, and now this?”
“We wanted to wait until the first trimester was over, Dad,” I explained. “Just to be safe.”
