“Look at her stomach where I hit her!” my husband yelled while fighting against the men holding him, and I wanted to kill him until I saw it: a deep dent in my sister’s belly that wasn’t popping back out.

“That’s memory foam under her dress, not a baby,” he said. “And I can prove everything she’s been doing.”

I got to my sister before she could stop me and felt around the dent. My hands went numb, pressing against foam edges and Velcro straps where my nephew should have been.