While I was in labor, my husband walked in with his young mistress. When I reached for the emergency button, he slapped me hard and hissed, “My mistress will become the baby’s mother, and you’re going to the psych ward.” He waved forged psychological papers over my hospital bed, certain nobody would believe me over a “successful husband.” But when the Chief of Medicine clicked, his entire world collapsed.

Chapter 1: The Thief of Breath
Pain is a thief. It steals your breath, your dignity, and your sense of time until the entire world narrows down to the rhythmic, mocking beep of a fetal monitor and the blinding, white-hot agony radiating from your spine. I lay there, drenched in sweat, my hair matted against the sterile pillows of the St. Jude’s Private Maternity Wing. Every four minutes, the world ended. Every four minutes, I felt as though my body was being split apart by a dull axe, the blade searching for a center that no longer existed.
The overhead lights were a cruel, humless neon, casting a sickly pallor over the room that smelled aggressively of iodine and synthetic lavender. I gripped the side rails of the bed, my knuckles white, my breath coming in ragged, animalistic gasps. I was ten centimeters dilated—the “transition” phase, they called it. The point where the mind begins to fracture under the sheer physical demand of bringing a life into the world. It is a threshold where you are neither the person you were nor yet the mother you are becoming. You are simply a vessel of pure, unadulterated sensation.