My mother told me to pull the blanket off my pregnant wife.
“Go ahead, Jake. See what she’s been hiding.”
Megan pressed herself against the headboard. Beneath the faded blue blanket, her hands covered her stomach.
“Please,” she whispered. “Not with her here.”
Mom folded her arms.
“See? This is what I’ve been dealing with.”
I had come home early expecting an explanation.
I hadn’t expected my wife to be afraid of who heard it.
Three weeks earlier, Megan had been standing barefoot in our kitchen, arguing that our daughter would inherit her musical talent.
“You don’t have musical talent,” I said.
“I have confidence. It’s practically the same thing.”
Then she laughed so hard she spilled orange juice on my work shirt.
That was the last morning I remembered her laughing.
By thirty-one weeks pregnant, she barely left our bedroom. She stopped answering friends, ate almost nothing, and slept with the blanket tucked tightly around her legs.
Whenever I offered to rub her feet, she refused.
Once, I touched her ankle through the fabric.
She cried out before I could pull away.
“Megan?”
“Just a cramp.”
“Let me look.”
“No.”
Her answer came so quickly that we both went quiet.
I suggested calling her obstetrician. She promised she would, then told me the following evening that the office had recommended rest.
I believed her.
I was working extra shifts to build up our savings before the baby came. My mother had a spare key and brought lunch most afternoons.
“She needs someone here,” Mom said. “You can’t keep leaving her alone.”
I thanked her.
Now I remember that thank-you more clearly than almost anything else.
The day before I came home early, Mom called me at work.
“Has Megan told you why she won’t let anyone see her legs?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask her.”
“Mom—”
“I’m tired of being made the villain every time I try to help.”
That evening, I sat beside Megan and asked whether something had happened.
She stared toward the bedroom door.
“Did your mother say something?”
“Why?”
Her fingers twisted the edge of my sleeve.
For a moment, I thought she would answer.
Then a key turned in the front door.
Megan let go of me.
Mom appeared carrying a covered casserole.
“There you are,” she said brightly. “Have you been upsetting yourself again?”
Megan looked down.
I should have asked why she had stopped talking.
Instead, I went to get plates.
The next afternoon, my manager let me leave two hours early. Mom’s car was already outside our apartment.
I heard her before I opened the bedroom door.
“You’ve had plenty of time to decide.”
Megan was sitting upright in bed. Mom stood beside her, holding a laundry basket.
“Decide what?” I asked.
Mom turned.
“Whether she’s finally going to tell you the truth.”
She reached for the blanket.
Megan caught it with both hands.
“Don’t.”
“Enough of this.”
“Mom. Step back.”
She stared at me, offended, but moved toward the dresser.
I sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Megan, you don’t have to show me anything. But I need to know if you’re hurt.”
Tears ran down her face.
“Will you make her leave?”
“Yes.”
Mom gave a short laugh.
“After everything I’ve done?”
I looked at her.
“Wait in the living room.”
“Jake—”
“Now.”
As she passed the bed, the laundry basket caught the blanket and dragged one corner onto the floor.
There were bruises around both Megan’s ankles.
On her calf was a narrow burn, partly covered by a dressing.
I couldn’t speak.
Mom could.
“She probably fell again.”
I turned slowly.
“Again?”
My mother gripped the basket.
“She’s been unsteady.”
“You told me she needed rest.”
“She didn’t want you worrying.”
Megan reached for my hand.
“Jake. Please take me to the hospital.”
I took out my phone.
Mom stepped toward us.
“There’s no reason to turn this into something—”
“Move away from the door.”
Something in my voice made her stop.
While I spoke to the emergency dispatcher, Megan held my wrist so tightly that her nails left marks.
Mom waited in the hallway.
For once, she had nothing to say.
Then Megan leaned close to my ear.
“She knows about the bruises,” she whispered, “because she was here.”
I looked toward the doorway.
“What happened?”
Megan glanced at my phone.
“Before you ask her anything, check your blocked numbers.”
I opened the list.
Her sister’s number was there.
So was her best friend’s.
And beneath them was a number I recognized from the card on our refrigerator.
Dr. Patel’s office.
From the hallway, my mother said quietly:
“Put the phone down, Jake.”
