My husband injured the tattooed skin on my shoulder because his father said no marked woman was clean enough to raise their grandson.

I was six months pregnant, but my mother-in-law held a towel against the blood and called the pain purification.

They bandaged me and locked me inside the spare room.

My husband said the family would inspect the rest of my body before deciding whether I was allowed to keep my baby.

By the time their footsteps moved downstairs, the spare room smelled like old carpet and the antiseptic my mother-in-law had poured onto the bandage.

I sat on the edge of the bed because lying down pulled at my shoulder.

The baby moved.

At the foot of the bed sat my navy overnight bag, the one I had left in Caleb's car because we were supposed to be home after dinner.

I pulled it closer with my foot and found two shirts, leggings, my toothbrush, and underwear folded inside.

Caleb had packed it.

Earlier that afternoon, before his father Raymond had said a word about my tattoo, Caleb had taken my phone from the kitchen counter and told me he'd plug it in because my battery was low.

I'd thanked him.

That part bothered me now.

For months, Caleb had asked me to wear sleeves around his parents, then asked me not to post photographs where my shoulder showed, then started calling those requests compromises.

When my older sister Maya asked whether things were getting strange at home, I told her Caleb was just trying to keep peace with his family.

I had made that lie easy for him.

Now Maya thought I was having an ordinary dinner with my in-laws, and my phone was somewhere downstairs.

I hadn't eaten since sometime around lunch, and the water glass beside the bed was empty except for a melting cube of ice.

I stood anyway.

The window opened less than an inch before the swollen frame caught.

I pulled until my shoulder burned, stopped, and left it alone.

Nothing useful came from it.

A few minutes later, Caleb unlocked the door and carried in a plate with crackers and sliced apple as if he'd been checking on someone with the flu.

"You need to eat," he said. "Dad doesn't want anything happening to the baby."

I took the plate and asked for my phone.

He looked at the overnight bag before he answered.

"You don't need everybody getting involved before we finish talking."

I ate one cracker because my stomach had started tightening from hunger.

Then I asked whether we were still going to my prenatal appointment the next morning.

Caleb rubbed his thumb along the edge of the plate.

"I moved it. You're stressed. Mom thinks a quiet day would be better."

The appointment had been on my calendar for three weeks.

I set the plate down.

"Put it back."

"We can talk about that after Dad feels comfortable."

He said it softly.

When he left, he locked the door again.

The towel his mother had used was still draped over the wooden chair, one corner dark where it had touched my shoulder.

I folded it once so it wouldn't drip onto the carpet and put it beside my bag.

Downstairs, someone turned on the television.

A game show audience applauded while Raymond said something I couldn't make out.

Then my mother-in-law, Diane, answered him.

"She's emotional because of the hormones. Don't push her until she's rested."

Caleb said, "The clinic doesn't need to know anything yet."

I stopped touching the bandage.

The argument I had thought was about Raymond's disgust had already reached my medical care.

Sometime later, the lock moved again.

Caleb's sister Leah slipped inside carrying a fresh glass of water and shut the door without turning the key.

She was still wearing one gardening glove because she had apparently forgotten to remove it after helping her mother outside.

"Caleb said you scratched your shoulder when you panicked," she whispered.

I looked at her.

"Did he tell you why I'm locked in here?"

Leah stared at the towel, then at the overnight bag.

"He said you asked for space."

I drank half the water before I answered because my mouth had gone dry.

Then I told her exactly what Raymond had said, exactly what Caleb had done, and exactly what Diane had called purification while she pressed that towel against me.

Leah went still.

From the hallway came the sound of somebody opening and closing a kitchen drawer for no reason I could understand.

I asked Leah one question.

"When did Caleb take my phone downstairs?"

Her answer came without hesitation.

"Before dinner."

I asked whether Raymond had already seen my shoulder.