The night I went into labor was never meant to be unforgettable — but fate had its own script.
My husband and I had argued earlier, one of those arguments where silence hurts more than shouting. Later that night, when the contractions began, I called him over and over — thirty times — my hands shaking, tears mixing with fear. He didn’t pick up.
My brother rushed me to the hospital. I gritted my teeth through each contraction, trying to bury the heartbreak beneath the pain.
Ten hours later, my husband finally called back. And my brother, without hesitation, answered with four words that struck like a thunderbolt:
“She didn’t make it.”
Everything inside him shattered.
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