Not a polite tap. Not a neighborly knock. This was urgent—almost angry.
My husband groaned, pulled on a shirt, and went to answer it. I followed slowly, one hand on my belly, my heart already racing.
The color drained from his face.
On the porch stood his father and his two brothers.
We rarely saw them. When we did, it was stiff and brief, weighed down by old arguments and years of distance. Seeing them together—this early—meant something was wrong.
My father-in-law stepped forward, gently but firmly moving my husband aside, and looked straight at me.
“I came to apologize,” he said calmly. “For raising a lazy, ignorant man who doesn’t appreciate his wife or his unborn child.”
Silence filled the room.
My mother-in-law froze. My husband stood stunned, mouth open, saying nothing.
My father-in-law kept his eyes on me.
“I heard what happened yesterday,” he continued. “How you were spoken to. How you were treated.”
My throat tightened.
