It was just after five in the morning. Outside, the sky was still dark, and the house carried that cold, early-dawn quiet. Mark woke me abruptly, his voice sharp and impatient.

“Get up. My parents are waiting for breakfast.”

I was eight months pregnant. My body felt heavy, my back ached, and sleep still clung to me, but I slowly pushed myself upright. In the living room, his parents were already awake, sitting comfortably on the sofa. His mother watched me with an unreadable expression. His father scrolled through his phone, barely glancing up.

“You should learn how things work in this family,” he said flatly.