My husband strapped me to a rocking chair while pregnant because his mother wanted me to soothe his sister’s screaming twins for the entire night. His father removed my back brace, and his brother locked the nursery. Blood from my injured shoulder stained the baby blanket. At dawn, they brought in a third crib and said my own child would soon join the schedule.

"Grab her!" Evelyn shrieked.

David surged through the door first, nearly knocking his father over. Marcus hesitated for half a second, his eyes darting to me, then to the cribs, then back to the doorway.

"Marcus!" Evelyn barked. "Get the key!"

Marcus ran.

I was left alone in the nursery with Evelyn and the crying twin.

Evelyn didn't run. She stood over me, her hands rested on her hips, her chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths. She looked down at the blood on my shoulder, then reached out and adjusted the blanket covering the sleeping baby on my lap, tucking the flannel edge under the infant's chin with gentle, practiced efficiency.

"You think she's going to help you," Evelyn said softly. Her voice lacked the harshness it had possessed moments ago; now it was almost conversational, the tone a mother uses when explaining a simple fact to a slow child. "Clara is weak. She’s been weak since she was twelve. That’s why her husband left her. That’s why she came back here."

I kept my mouth shut. Every breath pulled at the torn skin near my collarbone.

"You think you're different," she continued, picking up my back brace from the crib rail and turning it over in her hands. She adjusted one of the steel stays, testing its flex with her thumb. "You think because you have a college degree and a job at the bank that you don't need a family. But look at you. You can't even stand up on your own."

"Unstrap me," I whispered.

Evelyn smiled slightly. It was a terrifyingly calm expression. "When Marcus comes back with the key, we'll talk about it. Once we get the baby's room set up properly. We need to install the monitor system today anyway."

Downstairs, a heavy wooden door slammed shut.

A second later, the distinct, high-pitched crunch of glass breaking echoed up the stairwell, followed by the sound of a horn blaring from the driveway.

Evelyn's head snapped toward the window.

Out on the street, Clara had not run for her car. She had taken the brass key, sprinted down the front steps, and smashed the driver's side window of Marcus's truck with a heavy landscaping rock from the garden path. The vehicle's security alarm was wailing—a rhythmic, deafening pulse that cut through the quiet suburban morning.

"What is she doing?!" Evelyn hissed, hurrying to the window and pulling the blinds aside.

Neighbors' lights were clicking on across the street. A garage door began to roll up two houses down.

"Marcus! David!" Evelyn yelled into the hallway, running out of the nursery.

The moment her heels hit the hardwood outside, I shifted my weight forward.

The pain in my shoulder flared into a bright, white-hot line, but the movement rocked the heavy wooden chair forward onto its front runners. The leather belt around my waist was tight, but the chair was old—a heavy oak piece my husband's grandfather had built fifty years ago.

I planted my feet—bare, cold, and swollen—onto the floorboards.

I couldn't use my hands. I couldn't lean back without collapsing my lumbar spine. But I had my legs.

I stood up, taking the chair with me.

The weight was crushing. Sixty pounds of solid oak strapped to my lower back and waist, dragging me down like a dead weight. The baby on my chest woke up instantly, letting out a sharp squall as my posture shifted.

"Shh," I gasped, holding the baby against my torso purely through the incline of my body. "Shh, sweetie. Stay still."

I took one step toward the doorway.

The rear leg of the rocking chair caught on the edge of the blue rug. I stumbled, my knees buckling under the awkward, uneven load. I slammed my left shoulder into the doorframe, scraping the raw skin against the unpainted wood.

I didn't drop. I forced my right leg forward, dragging the wooden furniture across the threshold into the hall.

At the top of the stairs, Arthur was standing with his back to me, screaming down at Marcus in the driveway. "Disconnect the battery! Cut the wire!"

"Arthur," I said.

He turned.

For the first time since he had unbuckled my back brace seven hours ago, Arthur's face showed something resembling shock. He looked at me—a pregnant woman bent nearly double under the weight of an oak rocking chair strapped to her back, carrying a newborn against her ribs, covered in sweat and blood.

"Get back in the room," he commanded, but his voice lacked its previous iron weight.

"No," I said.

I took another step toward the top landing.

"If you fall down those steps, you'll kill the kid," Arthur warned, stepping into my path, his large hands raised, open and heavy. "Don't be stupid, Maya. Put the baby back."

"If you touch me," I said, my voice barely more than a growl, "I will throw myself down these stairs, and I will make sure I land on your neck."

Arthur stopped.

He looked into my eyes. He saw that I wasn't pleading. I wasn't bargaining. I was a cornered animal that had calculated the precise cost of total destruction and found it acceptable.