“She just collapsed,” I said, my voice cracking. “She’s seven months pregnant.”

The paramedics immediately knelt beside Megan, checking her pulse and hooking a monitor to her finger.

“Her heart rate is dangerously high,” one paramedic said, a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“And her blood pressure is bottoming out,” the other paramedic added, checking a gauge.

My mother stood in the corner of the kitchen, trying to blend into the shadows near the refrigerator.

She kept her leather handbag tucked firmly under her arm.

The police officer noticed her, his eyes lingering on her rigid posture.

“Ma’am, who are you?” the officer asked.

“I am his mother,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “I was just visiting.”

“She was here when it happened,” I said, looking directly at the officer.

“She was arguing with Megan.”

“I was trying to help her,” my mother lied, her voice sweetening.

“She has been very sick lately.”

“Is she on any medication?” the female paramedic asked, looking up at me.

“Yes,” I said. “She takes blood-pressure medication. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.”