"You need to build your strength back up after the hospital. I made you this special tonic. Have it while it's hot," she insisted.
"Thanks for the effort," I muttered, not wanting to stick around, and took the broth toward my study.
She caught my arm, fishing for information, "The doctor mentioned you've lost some memories. Do you really not recall how you fell?"
"I don't remember. How did it happen?" I feigned ignorance with wide, innocent eyes, curious about her version of the story.
"It was that darn handrail on the stairs; it was loose. You grabbed it and down you went. But don't worry, I've had it fixed!" She spoke with such conviction, that you'd think it was the absolute truth.
As if I could forget such a thing! Not in this lifetime!
In the study, I dumped the broth in disgust.
Three months ago, I was heavily pregnant, seven months along.
Lucas had secretly confirmed through a doctor friend that our baby wasn't a boy.
Martha came up with some medical concoction she claimed an "expert" had sworn by to ensure a male child.
"Martha, that's nothing but superstition," I scoffed, "Pregnant women shouldn't mess with random meds."
She pretended to toss the recipe and agreed on the surface, yet she stealthily mixed it into my soups daily.
Each meal left a bitter taste in my mouth, which I blamed on pregnancy-related appetite issues.
The day everything came crashing down, I received an anonymous email with a video clip of Lucas and Melanie a bit too close for comfort.
I stormed home, only to find Martha secretly adding something to the soup she had prepared for me.
Our argument escalated quickly, and Lucas intervened, siding with her and slapping me across the face.
Soon after, I was pushed down the stairs, resulting in a broken tailbone and excruciating abdominal pain.
At the hospital, there was no time for anesthesia; I had a premature C-section.
The agony was indescribable as if my body was being torn apart.
The child I endured so much for was stillborn, and I almost died from the bleeding.
Just thinking about it sends a sharp pain through every nerve in my body.
"Summer, honey, we still haven't sorted out Ethan's money for this month. Could you handle that tomorrow?" She asked, her voice dripping with feigned concern.
"Ethan? Who's that?" I frowned, clutching my forehead, "Ugh, my head is killing me."
Ethan is Lucas's no-good younger brother, living off our dime like a parasite.