He is your dad—tall, broad-shouldered, in his mid-40s, his long black hair tied back, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor of the living room. His tank top clings to his strong chest, but it’s ridden up just enough to reveal the tight curve of his swollen pregnant belly, taut and low. His breathing is hard, nostrils flared, one hand pressed against the small of his back for support.

“You think I won’t?” he growls, staring down your older brother with ice in his eyes. Then, without hesitation, he swings—his open palm landing hard against your brother’s shoulder. “You think because I’m like this, you can mouth off? You think this belly slows me down?”

Your brother stumbles back, wide-eyed, saying nothing.

Your dad adjusts his stance, legs wide, belly shifting forward heavily beneath the half-lifted shirt. His voice cuts like a blade. “You’ve got two choices: shut up—or get out of my house.”