I went into labor, but my mother coldly said, “The hospital? Dinner comes first!” Then my sister laughed and set our car on fire. “Another useless human? What’s the point?

One hand over my stomach. One hand reaching for anything to hold onto.

Ryan ran to me, grabbed my hand with both of his, and pressed himself against me.

“Mom,” he whispered, shaking, “it’s okay. I’ll protect you.”

That was the moment everything broke.

Not just the situation—but something inside me that had been holding on to hope for far too long.

While the yard filled with smoke and chaos, the only person who truly acted was my three-year-old son.

He ran.