The chair tipped past the point of recovery. Monica screamed. I fell backwards, my arms instinctively wrapping around my stomach as I hit the floor hard on my back, my belly taking some of the impact. The pain was immediate and overwhelming. A warm gush of fluid spread beneath me, soaking through my dress and pooling on the polished floor.
My water had broken. At 32 weeks, 8 weeks too early. Gasps erupted around the room. People pushed back from nearby tables, craning to see what had happened. The music stopped abruptly. I lay there, unable to move, feeling contractions beginning to ripple through my abdomen. Terror gripped me as I tried to assess if the baby was still moving.
She’s fine. My mother’s voice rang out across the now silent ballroom. Everyone keep eating. She just lost her balance. I stared up at the ceiling, my vision blurring with tears. My baby was coming too early because my father had kicked my chair because my mother had demanded I give up my seat.
The absurdity of it mixed with my fear, creating a surreal nightmare I couldn’t wake from. Perfect spot for you, honey. I heard my mother say to Olivia, her voice artificially bright. Through my haze, I saw her guiding my sister into the chair I’d been sitting in moments before. Olivia sat down carefully, her face pale, but saying nothing.
