My heart ached as I heard Jeremiah’s feet stomp toward his room. His door rattled in its frame with the force of his slam. I heard a thunk, and I assumed Simon had dropped his head back against the wall.

I debated whether to go out to speak to him, but before I’d gathered enough courage to climb off the bed, I heard my father say, “You’ve done quite enough for today, young man.”

“I need to talk to Ella,” Simon said, his voice quiet with defeat.

“The time for that was before you embarrassed and hurt her by filing for divorce.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“It’s time for you to go.” My father’s voice was firm. “And I’d strongly consider going back to that big life you now lead. Because you’ve destroyed what little bit of Christmas spirit Marsha and I’ve instilled in the kids.”

I didn’t hear anything else because I covered my head with my pillow, unable to listen to more.

When I finally stood, blackness encroached on the edges of my vision, lengthening the shadows on the walls and floor. I blinked it away as I staggered toward my door. Skipping breakfast was silly, and now I’d long-past missed lunch. Not healthy for either baby or me. I unlocked and opened the door, intending to check on Jeremiah. His angry words were so atypical—I couldn’t begin to imagine the hurt and fear flooding through his system.

Opening the door, the faintness returned, stronger than before. This time, I didn’t manage to grasp the door handle or the frame.

I slid forward with a soft groan. I jerked back, managing to bang my elbow on the doorframe before landing hard on my bottom.

“Mom! Are you okay? What did you hit?”

All the air was knocked from my lungs and my head swayed on my neck like I was three sheets to an unseen wind.

“Gramps! Gran!”

Feet pounded up the steps, and their anxious voices filled the room, all three of them speaking over and around me. I blinked up at them, still struggling to drag air into my lungs.

“I’m fine,” I managed to wheeze out.

“No, you’re not. We’re off to hospital,” Mum said. Her arm was around my shoulder, but I didn’t remember her holding me. I placed my hand over my stomach, worry churning through my stomach.

“Okay.”

“Right. Up you go.” My father helped me to my feet, and I swayed with ponderous intent. Jeremiah was there, propping me up with this bony shoulder under my arm. My poor boy. He’d had so much change foisted upon his narrow, too-young shoulders. I’d have to do better, be better at protecting him.

Later. After I could manage stairs on my own.