I collapsed on our kitchen floor at 38 weeks pregnant, bleeding and begging my husband Ryan to rush me to the ER, but he just fixed his blazer for his mother’s 65th birthday party, called me a dramatic attention seeker, and walked out the door without a single backward glance.

The walls were closing in on Ryan.

The next morning, he got a call from his former business partner, Dave.

Ryan and Dave had started the construction company together right after high school. For ten years, they had built decks, renovated kitchens, flipped houses. They had been best friends. Brothers, almost.

But Dave’s voice on the phone was cold. Angry.

"Ryan, the FBI just raided the office," he said. "They took all the computers, all the files, all the bank records. They’re investigating you for embezzlement."

Ryan’s stomach dropped.

"Embezzlement? Dave, what are you talking about? I never stole anything from the company—"

"Don’t lie to me!" Dave yelled. "I went through the books last night. For the last three years, you’ve been siphoning money out of the company account. Fifty thousand dollars. Seventy-five thousand. Last month alone you took a hundred and twenty grand. Where did it go, Ryan? Huh? Where did all the money go?"

Ryan didn’t answer.

He knew where it went.

To Margaret.

She had needed a new car. A new kitchen. A trip to Europe. Plastic surgery. Birthday parties. She had always come to Ryan, crying, saying she needed the money, that she would pay him back. She never did. And Ryan had never said no. He had taken it from the company, one check at a time, telling Dave it was for supplies, for subcontractors, for permits.

He had planned to pay it back.

He really had.

But the numbers kept getting bigger. And bigger. And now it was too late.

"Dave, I can explain—my mom needed the money, she was in trouble, I was going to pay it back—"

"Save it," Dave said. "I gave the FBI everything. All the records. All the forged receipts. You’re looking at ten years, minimum. And don’t call me again. You ruined the company. You ruined my life. I never want to see you again."

The line went dead.

Ryan dropped his phone, his hands shaking.

Ten years.

Ten years in pri:son for the neglect charges. Another ten for embezzlement. He was 32 years old. If he was lucky, he would get out when he was 50. He would miss Lila’s whole childhood. He would never get to see her grow up, graduate, get married.

All because he had been too scared to say no to his mom.

All because he had chosen a birthday party over his family.

He walked into the kitchen, where Margaret was sitting at the table, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper. She acted like nothing was wrong. Like the whole world wasn’t calling for her head.

"Mom," he said, his voice breaking. "The FBI raided the office. They know about the money. Dave turned me in. I’m going to go to pri:son for twenty years."

Margaret didn’t even look up from her paper.

"Then you better get a good lawyer," she said.

Ryan stared at her.

"It was your money! All of it! You made me take it! You said you would pay it back! You have to help me! Tell them it was you! Take the blame!"

Margaret laughed, a cold, sharp sound.

"And why would I do that? You’re the one who signed the checks. You’re the one who forged the receipts. There’s no proof I had anything to do with it. You’re going to pri:son, Ryan. Not me. Now stop yelling. You’re giving me a headache."

Ryan snapped.

He lunged across the table, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her as hard as he could.

"You ruined my life!" he screamed. "You made me leave Megan! You made me steal the money! You turned me into this! I hate you! I hate you more than anything in the world!"

Margaret didn’t flinch.

She reached up, slapping him as hard as she could, over and over again, until he let go of her, stumbling back.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Get out of my house. Now. I never want to see your worthless face again. If you tell anyone I had anything to do with the money or with what happened to Megan, I will tell the police you abused me for years. I have photos. I have witnesses. You’ll get another ten years. Now go."

Ryan stood there, his cheek stinging, his chest heaving.

He looked at the woman who had given birth to him, the woman he had spent his whole life trying to please, and felt nothing.

No love.

No loyalty.

Just hate.

"Fine," he said, turning toward the door. "Fine. But you know what, Mom? You’re going to get what you deserve. I promise you that. And when you’re sitting in a cell alone, rotting, remember: you did this to yourself."

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

He got into his old truck, the only thing he had left, and drove.

He didn’t know where he was going.