My mother dumped my baby’s ashes into the toilet because she said my grief was “bad energy” for my pregnant sister….

“Tell me you didn’t,” I said.

She folded the towel neatly over her arm. “I did what needed to be done. You were sitting in that room every day with that urn on your lap. It wasn’t healthy.”

My father, Richard, stepped into view from the kitchen, his face already tight from hearing our voices. “Marlene—”

“No, Dad,” I cut in, eyes locked on her. “You knew?”

He hesitated. That was enough.

Behind them, my younger sister Chloe came partway down the stairs, one hand resting protectively on her stomach. Seven months pregnant. Pale. Wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”