“Hey!” Michael snapped, his voice cutting through the room. “Don’t talk to her like that. And don’t touch her.”
Erica recoiled as if she’d been slapped, pulling her hand back and adopting a wounded expression. She turned to our parents, her lower lip trembling. “I was just playing! God, he’s so aggressive. Why is he always yelling at me?”
“Michael, please,” my father said, sighing heavily. “Erica is just excited. She expresses it differently. There’s no need to raise your voice in this house.”
“She just insulted my wife and jabbed a finger into her pregnant belly,” Michael said, his tone incredulous. “That’s not excitement. That’s battery.”
“Oh, stop being a lawyer,” my mother waved a dismissive hand. “Sarah knows Erica didn’t mean anything by it. Sarah is tough. She can take a joke. Right, honey?”
I looked at my mother, then at my father, and finally at Erica, who was now smirking behind her hand. This was the dynamic. The “Covert Contract” I had signed at birth: I was the sponge for their dysfunction, the steady rock they could chip away at, while Erica was the glass figurine they kept in a locked cabinet.
“It wasn’t funny,” I said quietly.
Erica rolled her eyes. “You’re so sensitive. It’s pathetic.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though everyone could hear it. “I bet it’s not even real. I bet if I really tried, I could make it quiet.”
The words hung in the air, grotesque and incomprehensible. Before my brain could process the threat, she pulled her leg back.
Part 2: The Point of No Return
The first kick was a blur of motion. I saw the toe of her heavy combat boot move, and then pain exploded in my lower abdomen.
“Erica!” I screamed, doubling over, clutching my stomach. The shock was as paralyzing as the pain. My own sister. My baby.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Michael roared. He leaped from his chair, shoving Erica backward. She stumbled and fell onto the plush carpet.
Immediately, the room erupted into chaos. But not the kind of chaos any sane person would expect.
My parents didn’t rush to me. They didn’t ask if the baby was okay. They rushed to Erica.
“Erica, sweetie, are you okay?” my mother cooed, dropping to her knees beside the girl who had just assaulted a pregnant woman. “Did he hurt you? Oh my god, David, look at her arm!”
“Sarah, look what you caused!” my father barked at me, his face red with indignation. “You know how sensitive your sister is! There was no need to provoke her!”
“She kicked my pregnant belly!” I shouted, tears of pain and disbelief streaming down my face. I was gasping for air, the room spinning. “She kicked me, Dad! She tried to hurt the baby!”
Erica sat up, tears streaming down her face, but her eyes—locked onto mine over my mother’s shoulder—were cold and dead. There was no remorse in them. Only a chilling satisfaction.
“I told you,” she whispered, her voice laced with venom. “I bet I could make it quiet.”
Then, she lunged.
It happened so fast. While my parents were fussing over her “bruised” arm, Erica scrambled forward on her hands and knees and lashed out with her leg again.
The second kick was brutal. It slammed into my side with sickening force, knocking the wind out of me. I lost my balance. I stumbled backward, my feet tangling in the rug.
The world tilted sideways. I saw the ceiling fan spinning. I saw Michael’s terrified face reaching for me.
