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My husband’s canary mistress burst into tears again.
All because at the shooting range I hit the target ninety–nine times, while she missed every one.
This time, as punishment, my husband made me–pregnant as I was-stand opposite her as a living target, while beside me sat the urn containing my mother’s ashes.
“You’re a trained sniper,” he said with a faint smile, “why take it so seriously against a little girl and upset her?”
Then he gave Tiffany Rose a choice: “Two options. Or we play a game of chance–let’s see if you hit Emily or the urn.”
When Tiffany raised her gun toward my mother’s ashes, panic tore through me. Instinctively, I hurled myself forward to block the shot.
The gunshot rang out. Blood splattered from my belly–my child was gone before taking a single breath.
I clung to life through surgery at St. Mary’s Medical Center. When I finally staggered out, Jonathan didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t even look at me–only sighed that Tiffany was still upset.
