At Thanksgiving dinner, my ten-year-old nephew suddenly slammed a ball into my pregnant stomach and shouted, “Come out, baby!” Pain shot through me as I clutched my belly, begging him to stop. My mother didn’t even move—she smirked, “That’s nothing compared to real labor.” I pleaded for someone to call 911, but my sister just laughed, filming it like entertainment. She had no idea… that moment would cost her everything.

I leaned forward and gently kissed my baby’s soft, warm forehead.

We were surrounded by the impenetrable, fiercely protected safety of the fortress Aaron and I had built for her. We had excised the rot from our lives completely, leaving only clean, healthy soil for her to grow in.

And as I watched her chest rise and fall with deep, even breaths, I knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that no one would ever, ever laugh at our pain again.