The twenty guests at my baby shower—friends, neighbors, his cousins—stood frozen, their champagne flutes halfway to their mouths. The silence was absolute, save for the hum of the pool filter.

I reached for the envelope. It was an instinct, a desperate attempt to claw back some agency.

That was my mistake.

My mother-in-law, Doris, stepped forward. She was a small woman with hair sprayed into an iron helmet of gray curls, but she moved with the speed of a viper. Her face was purple with a rage that seemed too big for her body.

“You ungrateful little leech!” she hissed.

Before I could react, she drew back her fist and slammed it into my distended stomach with shocking, impossible force.