Nyla sat quietly, looking out the window, telling herself the same lie again and again.
Maybe today will be peaceful. Maybe today they’ll be kind. Maybe today they’ll stop blaming me.
But the minute they stepped into Ivonne’s living room, the air shifted.
“Lord have mercy,” Ivonne said, staring at Nyla’s body like it offended her. “Terrence, you sure you okay?”
Nyla’s face warmed.
Terrence laughed like it was a joke. Like it wasn’t poison.
Then another voice joined in, loud and careless.
“Still no baby yet?”
That was Darnell Grant, Terrence’s older brother—a grown man who loved to bully people and call it truth.
Nyla’s fingers tightened around her purse strap.
Ivonne clapped her hands like she was about to announce church notices.
“Everybody keep praying,” she said, “because some women don’t know how to be women.”
Nyla’s mouth went dry.
Terrence sat down on the couch and turned on the TV like none of this mattered—like Nyla wasn’t sitting there shrinking in real time.
Nyla tried to speak, but her voice came out small.
“I’m trying. I really am.”
Ivonne turned to her slowly.
“Trying?” she repeated. “Trying is not enough. My son needs a child.”
Darnell chuckled. “Maybe she eating too much to make room.”
The room laughed. Not everyone—but enough.
Nyla blinked fast. She didn’t want tears. She didn’t want tears. But tears don’t ask permission.
She looked at Terrence just once. She begged with her eyes.
Terrence didn’t defend her. He didn’t correct them. He didn’t even look uncomfortable.
He just said, calm and careless, “Nyla, don’t start crying. You always make things dramatic.”
And in that moment, Nyla realized something painful.
