I looked at the woman who had made my life miserable for seven years. I didn’t feel anger anymore. I just felt a profound sense of exhaustion.
“You didn’t just believe I was nothing, Eleanor,” I said softly. “You actively celebrated my destruction. You threw a party for it.”
A tear slipped down her perfectly powdered cheek. “I know. And I know I have no right to ask, but… those are my grandchildren. I want to know them. I want to help.”
I placed a hand on my stomach, feeling a tiny foot kick against my palm.
“You can know them,” I said. Her eyes widened with fragile hope. “But there are limits. You will not undermine me. You will not speak ill of me. And you will never, ever allow David to use you as a backdoor into my life. If you cross a boundary once, you will never see them again. Do you understand?”
Eleanor nodded fiercely, tears spilling over her eyelashes. “I understand. I promise.”
“Then you can go,” I said, turning my head toward the window.
She left quietly. Limits were a kind of peace I had never known before. I was no longer fighting for my place in their world; I had built my own.
The weeks dragged on. The physical toll of carrying twins on bed rest was agonizing. My back ached, my feet swelled, and the fear of another hemorrhage was a constant shadow in the corner of my mind.
Finally, at thirty-six weeks, the fortress breached.
It was midnight when my water broke. There was no slow build-up of contractions. It was immediate, violent chaos. My mother rushed me to the hospital, the tires squealing on the wet pavement.
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