“Emily, dear,” Margaret said during the toast, her tone overly sweet, “you look so… well nourished. I suppose pregnancy agrees with you. My son does indulge you, doesn’t he?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the guests. Emily forced a small smile. Thomas shot his mother a sharp glance.
“Mother,” he warned quietly.
“Oh, relax,” Margaret replied lightly. “I’m only teasing.”
But the teasing didn’t stop. Throughout the meal, Margaret continued—subtle jabs about Emily’s background, her manners, her silence. Guests shifted in their seats. Emily remained calm, breathing slowly, whispering reassurance to the baby inside her.
When the main course arrived, Emily stood instinctively to assist a waiter—a simple gesture of kindness. As she turned to sit, Margaret reached forward and slid the chair backward.
It happened in an instant.
The scrape of wood, the sudden fall, the sickening thud against marble—and then Emily’s scream.
“My baby!”
The room went silent. Glasses tipped. Cutlery clattered. Thomas leapt from his chair and dropped to the floor beside her.
“Emily!” he cried.
Blood stained the edge of her dress. Her face was white with terror. Margaret froze, her expression faltering too late to hide the cruel satisfaction guests had seen moments earlier.
“Call an ambulance!” Thomas shouted.
Continue reading…
