On the adjacent loveseat, my mother didn’t even mute the game show playing loudly on the television. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, prioritizing the spinning wheel over the escalating tension in her own living room.
“Leave the boy alone, Emily,” my mother murmured distractedly, taking a sip of her iced tea. “You’re stressing him out with your nagging.”
I looked back at Dylan. The grin had widened.
He didn’t put the ball down. Instead, he planted his feet shoulder-width apart. He pulled his right arm back, his entire ten-year-old body twisting with practiced, deliberate momentum.
My breath caught in my throat. My brain screamed at me to move, to dive out of the way, but my heavy, pregnant body was too slow, too cumbersome to react in time.
Before I could even raise my arms fully to shield myself, Dylan hurled the heavy, dense rubber dodgeball with every ounce of strength he possessed.
He didn’t aim for my legs. He didn’t aim for the sofa cushions.
He aimed directly, purposefully, at the absolute dead center of my stomach.
