Right after I gave birth, I was still lying flat in my hospital bed – drained, sore, barely able to lift my head—trying to comprehend that I had just welcomed another child into the world. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the room. Machines hummed and beeped softly. My newborn son slept quietly beside me, wrapped in a thin blanket. I truly believed the hardest part was behind me.
I was wrong.
The door burst open without a knock.
My daughter, Emily, rushed inside. She was sixteen—normally calm, soft-spoken—but now her face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with fear.
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