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.

“Erica,” my mother said softly, a warning note in her voice—not for Erica’s behavior, but for my potential reaction to it. “Be nice.”

Erica ignored her. She poked my stomach. Hard. It wasn’t a gentle touch; it was a territorial prod, a finger digging into my flesh with unnecessary force. “Just looks like you’ve been eating too much pasta, Sarah. But then again, you always did have a heavy look about you.”

“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.