Something changed in her expression immediately.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Like a missing puzzle piece had finally clicked into place.
“She called me tonight,” Claire said quietly.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel.
“When?”
“Around nine. Before the pain got bad.”
A sick feeling spread through me instantly.
“What did she say?”
Claire stared ahead toward the glowing hospital sign in the distance.
“She told me I shouldn’t trap you with a baby if we weren’t completely stable yet.”
For a second I genuinely stopped breathing.
Because I recognized my mother’s tone immediately.
The fake concern.
The carefully disguised cruelty.
The manipulation wrapped inside “advice.”
And suddenly I realized something horrifying.
My mother hadn’t just poisoned me.
She had been poisoning my wife too.
Claire’s phone vibrated weakly near her seat. At the next stoplight, I picked it up.
More missed calls from my mother.
And one answered call.
Six minutes long.
Six minutes before Claire’s panic became unbearable.
By the time we reached the emergency entrance, nurses were already rushing a wheelchair toward us.
Questions came rapidly afterward.
“How many weeks?”
“Any bleeding?”
“Any falls?”
