“You’re letting her poison your mind,” my mother said, her tone hardening again.

“Think about your son, Jake.”

“Think about who is going to raise him right.”

“Not her.”

Megan let out a small, ragged gasp behind me.

Her grip on my wrist suddenly loosened, her hand sliding down my arm.

“Jake,” she whispered, her voice sounding different now, thin and distant.

I turned around to look at her, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Megan’s face had gone completely white, her lips tinged with a faint blue.

She reached for her stomach, her fingers digging into the fabric of her maternity shirt.

“Something’s wrong,” Megan whispered.

She took one small step backward, her knees buckling beneath her.

Her eyes rolled back, the lids fluttering as she began to slide toward the floor.

I lunged forward, catching her under her arms before she hit the linoleum.

“Megan!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the kitchen tiles.

She didn’t answer, her head falling back against my shoulder, her breathing shallow and fast.

My mother stood over us, her face perfectly still, watching Megan struggle for air.