Start packing.
My father, Joseph, was standing near the living room entry. He heard every word. He saw my face. He saw the bassinet. He saw me bracing one hand over my stomach every time I tried to shift my weight.
He said nothing.
I tried to sit up with Valerie in my arms, and a sharp pain tore across my abdomen so violently that I almost cried out. I told my mother this was cruel. I told her no decent person would put a woman out like this a day after major surgery.
That was when she snapped.
She marched to the bed, leaned over me, and grabbed a fistful of my hair so hard my scalp burned.
Stop complaining, she screamed. Pack your things and get out.
I gasped because the sudden pull jerked my body forward. Pain shot across my incision. For a second I thought I was going to black out.
My father let out a long, irritated breath, as if I were the one making the day difficult.
That is enough, he muttered. Take her outside if she wants to make a scene.
