I was already trembling through contractions when my mother-in-law burst into the labor waiting room and began shouting, “She’s faking it! She just wants attention!

So when my contractions began at 3:12 a.m., I wasn’t just feeling pain.

I felt dread.

At the hospital, a nurse placed me in a wheelchair and rolled me into the labor waiting area while another staff member checked my paperwork. Derek hovered nearby, phone in his hand, already texting his mother. I caught a glimpse of her name flashing on the screen, and my stomach tightened.

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Not right now.”

“It’s fine,” he replied automatically. “She just wants updates.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. Another contraction surged through me and I gripped the armrest, forcing myself to breathe through it. The waiting room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A television murmured quietly in the corner. Somewhere down the hallway, a newborn cried—sharp and distant.

Then the doors opened and Janice strode in as if she owned the entire place.

Her hair was perfectly styled. Her purse matched her shoes. And her face carried the look of someone already angry—like she had arrived ready to blame someone.