When I was pregnant with twins and suffering intense labor pains, I begged my husband to take me to the hospital.
Just as we were heading out, my mother-in-law stopped us and said, “Where are you trying to go? Come and take me and your sister to the mall instead.” He immediately refused to drive me and said, “Don’t you dare move until I come back.” My father-in-law chimed in, “She can wait a few hours. It’s not that serious.” They all walked out, leaving me bent over and trembling in pain. By chance, an old friend stopped by and helped me get to the hospital. Suddenly, my husband stormed into the delivery room and shouted, “Stop this drama. I won’t waste my money on your pregnancy.” When I called him greedy, he yanked my hair and slapped me across the face. I cried out in agony. Then he punched my pregnant stomach. What happened next was unbelievable.
The contractions began around three in the afternoon. A sharp, burning pain tore through my abdomen, each surge stronger than the last. I clutched the kitchen counter, my knuckles turning white against the marble as sweat gathered on my brow.
“Travis,” I called out, my voice tight with strain. “Travis, we need to go to the hospital. The babies are coming.”
