I gave birth and thought the hard part was over.
The room stank of antiseptic and sweat. My baby cried—sharp, angry, alive. My hands were still shaking. My stomach felt like it had been ripped open and stitched back together with a rusty needle.
I blinked at the ceiling lights, trying to breathe through the pain.
Then the door swung open.
My husband’s parents walked in like they paid for the room.
No “congratulations.” No “how are you.” My mother-in-law didn’t look at my face. She looked at the bassinet.
“We’re taking the firstborn,” she said, calm as a grocery list.
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