My sister’s baby shower was supposed to be a joyful celebration. She was eight months pregnant, glowing in a floral dress, surrounded by gifts and laughter. But the room turned into chaos when my husband suddenly strode over, balled his fist, and punched her in the stomach. She doubled over, crashing into the gift table while fifty horrified guests shrieked.
I shoved him back, shrieking, “What’s wrong with you?” My mother was dialing 911, crying that a pregnant woman had been assaulted. My father and brothers pinned my husband against the wall while I pounded his chest, calling him insane. My sister writhed on the floor, clutching her belly, moaning that something was terribly wrong. Her boyfriend tried to comfort her, my grandmother clutched her chest in shock, and aunts fled with their children.
I knelt beside my sister, desperate to feel the baby kick, but she pushed my hands away, sobbing that it hurt too much. Our neighbor, a midwife, rushed in to help, but my sister screamed at everyone not to touch her stomach. The scene spiraled: my uncle talked about pressing charges, another relative fainted, and the entire living room vibrated with panic.
Then my husband, straining against the men holding him, yelled, “Look at her stomach! It’s not a baby—it’s foam.”
