Her mother, Diane, appeared holding a dish towel.

She looked at Emma lying twisted on the floor.

At the blood.

At her swollen belly.

And sighed.

Not screamed.

Not panicked.

Sighed.

“She’s being dramatic again,” Khloe said while walking carefully downstairs. “I barely touched her.”

“You pushed me,” Emma whispered.

Khloe stopped immediately.

“I did not.”

“You pushed me.”

“Emma,” Diane snapped sharply. “Enough.”

“There’s blood,” Emma said.

She tried pushing herself upright and nearly blacked out from pain.

“Mom,” she begged. “I need a hospital. The baby—”