My mother stood trapped in Paul’s arms, her chest heaving, her perfectly pinned hair fallen loose around her face.

She was staring down at me on the floor.

I looked up, my hands shielding my stomach, my brain running silent, frantic math about eleven weeks, pelvic bone density, what is biologically shielded and what isn’t.

For one fleeting second, something mirroring actual horror crossed her face.

I’ve replayed that second a thousand times.

Whether it was horror at the violence she’d just committed, or horror that four witnesses had seen the mask slip, I never got the chance to decide.