The night I went into labor was never supposed to be unforgettable — but fate had its own plan.
Earlier that evening, my husband and I had argued — one of those heavy, aching arguments where silence cuts deeper than words. Hours later, when the contractions began, I reached for my phone with trembling hands. Panic and pain blurred together as I called him again and again — thirty times in total. He never answered.
My brother was the one who rushed me to the hospital. I bit down hard on my lips through every contraction, trying to swallow my heartbreak along with the pain.
Ten hours passed before my husband finally called back. My brother picked up the phone without hesitation and said just four words that crashed through the line like thunder:
“She didn’t make it.”
