“Lock both doors, Ethan,” Linda said. “Let her give birth alone. And make sure she doesn’t follow us.”
And he did it.
He actually did it.
They left me there—locked inside, doubled over in pain on the marble floor of a house they loved to show off as if it were theirs.
My phone was across the room.
I remember dragging myself toward it, one hand holding my belly, the other slipping across the cold floor. Our wedding photo glowed beside me like a cruel joke.
I called 911.
Then I called Hannah—my best friend. The only person who could hear fear in my silence.
By the time paramedics broke in, I was barely conscious.
My son was born that same night.
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