The sun was warm on my shoulders as I leaned against the pool fence, feeling the gentle swell of my pregnancy beneath my loose shirt.
It was a late afternoon in early summer, a time that should have been serene, yet there was an undercurrent of tension that I couldn’t shake.
My childhood home, with its familiar corners and memories, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Then it did.
I felt a sudden shove from behind, a forceful gesture that sent me tumbling into the cold embrace of the pool.
My mother’s hands had pushed me, and as I plunged beneath the water, the shock of betrayal mingled with the physical shock of the fall.
The cool water enveloped me, muffling the world above, but not the emotions that surged within.
I struggled to find my footing, to break through the surface.
Panic fluttered in my chest, a chaotic rhythm that matched the rapid beat of my heart.
It felt like a lifetime before I breached the water, gasping for air and clarity.
