The first sharp contraction hit me at exactly four in the afternoon.

A cold November rain drummed against the glass of our Alexandria home.

I held my stomach, waiting for the wave of pressure to pass.

The hallway clock ticked loudly in the quiet house.

Then I heard the front door click open.

Grant walked in, but he was not alone.

Brielle Kane stood beside him, wearing a damp trench coat and a smug smile.

On her left ring finger, a diamond band caught the hallway light.

It was my grandmother Evelyn’s ring, taken from my jewelry box upstairs.

I stood up slowly, keeping one hand on the kitchen counter for support.

“What is she doing here, Grant?” I asked.

Grant did not look me in the eye.

He set a single canvas duffel bag on the hardwood floor.

“You need to leave, Tessa,” he said.

His voice was flat and devoid of any warmth.

I looked from him to the canvas bag, then back to his face.

“I am in labor, Grant,” I said. “Our daughter is coming.”

Brielle took a step forward, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It’s not your house anymore, sweetie,” Brielle said. “Show her the papers, Grant.”

Grant pulled a folded white document from his coat pocket.

He held it out, though he still refused to meet my gaze.

It was a quitclaim deed for our Alexandria property.

At the bottom of the page, my signature was written in blue ink.

It was a shaky, clumsy imitation of my handwriting.

“I never signed this,” I whispered, the paper trembling in my hand.

“You did,” Grant lied. “And now I need you out of my house.”

Another contraction gripped my abdomen, tighter and more painful than the last.

I gasped, reaching for the wall to stay upright.

Grant grabbed my elbow, his grip tight and cold.

He guided me toward the front door, ignoring my resistance.

“Please,” I said, my breath catching. “Just let me call an ambulance.”

“Call it from the driveway,” Grant said.

He pushed me out onto the concrete porch.

The heavy wooden door shut in my face, and the deadbolt clicked into place.