My pregnant sister had lost eleven pounds in twenty-one days, but her mother-in-law kept nudging that sour-smelling plate toward her and telling her to clean it. I sealed a scoop of it in a container, drove it to the ER, and the truth blew her whole marriage apart.

The second I lifted the lid off my sister's dinner, my stomach turned.

Hannah was six months pregnant, sitting at the kitchen table with both hands folded over her belly. Her skin had a gray tint to it. Her wedding band spun loose every time she moved her hand.

Across the table, her mother-in-law, Carol, slid the plate an inch closer.

"If you're hungry, I expect you to finish all of it," she said.

The chicken smelled sour, with a sharp chemical edge underneath, like crushed aspirin.

"I'm not hungry," Hannah said quietly.

Carol's mouth went thin. "That's exactly what you told me last night."

I looked at my sister. "How much weight have you lost?"

She stared down at her lap.

"Eleven pounds."

In three weeks.

I stopped asking questions.

While Carol went to the pantry for something, I opened my bag, took out a clean takeout container I'd had in there from lunch, and quietly spooned in some of the chicken and potatoes. I pressed the lid shut and buried it at the bottom of my purse. Then I walked upstairs, dragged Hannah's suitcase out of the bedroom closet, and started filling it.

Carol intercepted me halfway down the stairs.

"You are not taking her anywhere."

"Yes. I am."

"She's emotional. Pregnancy does that. She'll be fine in the morning."

Behind me, Hannah had started to cry.

That was enough.

I called our parents, put them on speaker so Carol could hear every word, and told them to meet us at Mercy General.

Carol shouted for Hannah's husband, Derek. He came out of the office, leaned against the hallway wall, and folded his arms.