Constance would not tell anyone who the father was. Not when her mother cried nor when her father yelled. Not even when her older sister, Emily, sat on her bed and held her in her arms – rocking her gently.
Constance was four-months pregnant when she told her family, and was already beginning to show. Emily was furious at herself for not picking up on the signs earlier – the baggy clothes Constance was preferencing over her usual tailored look, her out-of-control appetite, her strange secretiveness. It all seemed so obvious, now.