(FULL) THE GARAGE THEY FORCED ME INTO

The knock on the bedroom door came at 5:12 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning.

I was already awake. Seven months pregnant made sleep almost impossible anyway. The baby had been pressing against my ribs all night, and the old mattress in my parents’ guest room sagged in the middle like it was trying to swallow me whole. When the knock came again — sharper this time — I sat up slowly, one hand instinctively cradling my belly.

My sister, Rachel, didn’t wait for me to answer. She pushed the door open and stood there in her silk robe, arms crossed.

“Mom and Dad said you need to move into the garage today,” she said, voice flat, like she was telling me the weather. “Mark needs a quiet space to work. His new job starts Monday and he can’t concentrate with all the noise in the house.”

I stared at her. “The garage?”

“It’s only temporary,” she added quickly, though her eyes didn’t meet mine. “You’re not even supposed to be here this long anyway. It’s been nine months since Daniel’s funeral. You should have figured something out by now.”

From the kitchen, I could hear my parents talking in low voices. The smell of coffee drifted down the hallway. No one came to check on me.

I looked down at my swollen belly, at the faded T-shirt of Daniel’s that I still wore to sleep. The one that still smelled faintly like him even after all these months.

Rachel sighed impatiently. “Well? Are you going to move or not? Mark is already bringing his desk over.”

I didn’t argue. I had learned months ago that arguing only made things worse. I simply nodded, stood up, and began packing the few things I still kept in the guest room.

By 6:30 a.m., I was carrying my small suitcase and a thin blanket down the narrow hallway that led to the garage. The concrete floor was freezing. The single folding bed they had set up in the corner looked like something from a military barracks. There was no heater. Only one small window that didn’t close properly, letting in the cold November air.

I placed my hand on my belly as another kick came.

“It’s okay, little one,” I whispered. “We’ve been through worse.”

Outside, I could hear my family laughing in the warm kitchen. The sound of plates clinking. The smell of bacon. Inside the garage, it was silent except for the wind slipping through the cracked window.

I lay down on the thin mattress, pulled the single blanket over me, and stared at the ceiling.

They had already forgotten what Daniel had done for them.