The baby shifted again, and a dull cramp tightened across my lower back.
The team leader noticed me brace one hand against the vehicle.
“Major, we need to move.”
I nodded.
My mother came down the driveway quickly.
“You cannot leave like this.”
“The convoy has orders.”
“I mean with us angry.”
“You were already angry when you thought I was powerless.”
Her eyes filled, but I could no longer treat tears as proof of accountability.
“Please come inside,” she said. “I’ll make your father apologize.”
“I don’t need you to make him say words he does not mean.”
“We are your family.”
“Then you should have acted like it before the uniform appeared.”
I climbed into the rear seat of the lead vehicle.
The interior smelled faintly of cold vinyl and coffee, and someone had placed a folded blanket across the seat for me.
The team leader handed me the seat belt and waited until I had fastened it below my stomach.
