Mark tried to intervene, but his voice faltered. His parents towered over me, and my cries for help went unanswered. For a moment, I felt the world tilt. I had never felt so helpless—and so furious.

Through the haze of fear and pain, clarity hit me like a lightning bolt. I looked at all of them—Diane, Vanessa, even Mark, who hadn’t moved to stop this—and I said, steady despite the quiver in my voice, “All of you will regret this. Every last one of you.”

They laughed, thinking I was broken, defeated. But in that moment, I promised myself something no one could take: I would survive. I would fight. And I would make them pay—for the baby, for me, for justice.

The hospital was cold, fluorescent lights buzzing above as nurses rushed me into a delivery room. I was terrified—terrified for my baby, terrified for myself, and oddly, terrified of facing the consequences. Mark stayed outside, silent and pale, while I was examined. The doctor confirmed the worst: I had suffered a partial placental abruption. The baby was alive, but I had lost a lot of blood.