The day my parents tried to turn me into a walking child support check for the baby my husband made with my little sister, the air in the Wake County courthouse tasted like metal and lemon floor cleaner. My mother stood at the plaintiff’s table in her best church blazer, pearls perfectly centered, eyes burning holes through the side of my head. My father had his arms folded across his chest like a man inspecting a job site, already convinced he was right.
To their left, my husband laced his fingers through my sister’s like they were at some kind of engagement photo shoot instead of a hearing.
Her belly was just beginning to show under a pale pink dress. She rubbed it with her free hand as if the performance needed a prop.
“The court will side with us,” my sister said, loud enough that it rippled through the room. “She’s got nothing but jealousy.”
My husband squeezed her hand harder, staring at the scuffed floor instead of at me.
