My husband stumbled out of bed and opened the door. The color drained from his face.
Standing in the hallway were his father and his two older brothers—men we almost never saw. Family gatherings with them usually ended in shouting or awkward silence, so an early-morning visit was unthinkable. My stomach tightened. Something had happened. Something serious.
Before my husband could speak, his father stepped forward and moved him aside as if he weighed nothing. The gesture wasn’t cruel, just decisive. My father-in-law’s eyes met mine, steady and searching, and I suddenly felt exposed in my loose robe, barefoot on the cold floor.
“I came to apologize,” he said, his voice low but firm. “For raising a lazy, ignorant man who doesn’t appreciate his wife or his unborn child.”
For illustrative purposes only
The room went dead quiet.
My husband opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brothers stared at the floor. My mother-in-law appeared behind them, frozen, her lips pressed tight.
My father-in-law didn’t look at any of them. He kept his gaze on me. “Yesterday,” he continued, “my neighbor saw you carrying heavy grocery bags alone. Eight months pregnant. He told me what he saw—and what he heard.”
My cheeks burned. I hadn’t realized anyone was watching.
