“Angie!” Mom’s voice didn’t just crack; it signaled a hunt. She was on me before I could finish the breath, her hands shoving me down into the chair.

“It kicked,” I managed, the words scraping my throat. My stomach felt like it had been hit with a hammer. “Dad, it shouldn’t be able to, it’s too early.”

Dad didn't give me a lecture on gestation cycles. He didn't repeat my age. He stepped into my space, his face a mask of cold, calculated fury. He wasn't looking at my stomach. He was looking at the back of my head.

"Don't move," he commanded. It wasn't a request; it was an...