Ethan, my brother, had only discovered my pregnancy two weeks ago and had since bombarded me with a barrage of cruel messages. He wasn’t visiting to welcome his nephew. He came to revel in my discomfort, to find a new way to humili:ate me. That’s why I’d cut him off years earlier. His fascination with my shame had always bordered on obsession—from shoving me into puddles as a child to announcing to our entire seventh-grade class that I’d gotten my first period. This moment was no different. Only this time, the puddle was deeper, the stage wider.

As I locked eyes with my father-in-law, his face unreadable, I gave the slightest nod—a signal we’d arranged. Ethan didn’t know it, but I had prepared for this day. I’d spent the last week of my pregnancy aligning every piece of the plan—Samuel’s family, my friends, even Ethan’s weary wife. Every pawn was in position.

So while Ethan laughed so hard that tears streaked his face, while he moved closer, aiming to poke at my fresh cesarean scar, his downfall was unfolding just beyond the door. I let him take photos, write snide captions, mock my “life choices.” Every cruel post was another shovel of dirt on his own grave.