My sister kicked my preg/nant stomach “just to hear the sound it made.” When I tried to confront her, my parents immediately shielded her. “Erica, talk to us, honey. Did she even say anything to you?” they pleaded— as my sister sobbed her way over and kicked me again, harder this time. I blacked out. When I didn’t wake up, they scoffed. “Enough pretending. Get up. Erica’s been through enough.” My father snapped, “Stand up now—or I’ll let her kick you again.” Then my husband walked in. Panic spread. The doctor followed. One quiet sentence changed everything: “The baby isn’t moving anymore.” My husband turned to them—and that’s when their real nightmare began.

Part 5: The Confessions Under Oath

The legal assault was swift and brutal.

Within a week, my mother was arrested for fraud and theft. The local news showed her being led out of her house in handcuffs, weeping theatrically for the cameras.

Two days later, the police surrounded the house again. This time for Erica. She was charged with felony hit-and-run, distribution of narcotics, and assault. Because of the flight risk and the severity of the crimes, bail was denied.

But Michael wasn’t done. He wanted them to admit what they did to me.

He filed a civil suit for wrongful death and assault. Not for the money—they had none left—but for the deposition.

He wanted them under oath.

The deposition took place in a sterile conference room. My parents, out on bail, looked haggard. Erica was there in an orange jumpsuit, shackles on her wrists.

Michael was the inquisitor.

He played the recording of the 911 call I had made from the hospital. He showed the photos of my bruises.

Then, he turned to Erica.