I lay in a narrow hospital bed at St. Jude’s Medical Center, wrapped in crisp white sheets that carried the sharp scent of disinfectant. Machines hummed softly around me, and the heart monitor at my side marked each passing second with an unforgiving, mechanical beep. Every sound felt amplified, a reminder that something was wrong no matter how calmly the nurses spoke.
My name is Emily Carter. I was seven months pregnant, and a sudden spike in my blood pressure had alarmed my doctor enough to admit me for observation. They called it a precaution. A few hours of monitoring, perhaps some medication, and I’d be sent home. That was the plan.
But plans had been falling apart for a long time.
I rested my hand on my swollen belly, focusing on the gentle movement beneath my skin. My daughter kicked softly, as if reassuring me she was still there—alive, strong, trusting me to protect her. I breathed slowly, following the nurse’s instructions, clinging to that rhythm.
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