Diane didn’t stop. She walked straight past me, ignoring the gasps of my friends, and marched directly to the gift table.
She grabbed the donation box with both hands and yanked it toward her chest, trying to pull it off the table entirely.
“Mom, stop!” I shouted, the shock finally breaking. I lunged forward, my heavy belly slowing me down, but I managed to catch one side of the box. The cardboard crinkled under our combined grip.
The room froze. The soft chatter and the background music seemed to evaporate, leaving only the sound of our harsh breathing. Eric, who had been chatting with Melissa’s husband near the coffee station, dropped his cup. It shattered on the floor as he began to rush across the room.
“Let go of it, Ava!” my mother hissed, yanking harder. Her eyes were wild, dilated with an ugly, frantic greed. “You are so ungrateful! You are a selfish, spoiled brat! This is my family, this is my money!”
“It’s for the baby’s hospital bills! Are you insane? Let go!” I cried, pulling back with all my strength.
Realizing she could not rip the box free from my grip, a dark, primal rage overtook her face. She let go of the box so suddenly that I stumbled backward.
Diane spun around, her eyes darting across the room for an outlet for her fury. Near the edge of the gift table stood a heavy, wrought-iron decorative arch that Melissa had used to hang a floral arrangement. Next to it, a spare, solid iron support rod was leaning against the wall.
My mother snatched up the heavy iron rod.
“Diane, NO!” Eric roared, sprinting through the maze of tables.
But he was too far away. Before anyone could reach her, before my brain could even register that my own mother had picked up a weapon, she pivoted on her heel. With both hands, she swung the iron rod like a baseball bat.
She swung it hard, directly into my eight-month pregnant belly.
My water broke instantly….. Read More :
