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Seven days after my daughter was born, my phone rang. An unknown number. I nearly ignored it, but something made me answer.
“Is this the—”
“At least now everyone knows the truth.”
When I tried to remove the clothes from my newborn, my father grabbed my arm and twisted it. “Leave them on. She needs to know her place.” My mother slapped me while I was still weak from delivery. “You don’t get to decide anything.” My brother took photos of my baby dressed like that. “This is going on social media.”
My sister uploaded the pictures with mocking captions.
One week later, their lives began to fall apart.
The fluorescent lights in the delivery room had barely dimmed when my family arrived. I was holding my daughter, feeling her tiny heartbeat against my chest, when they walked in carrying a gift bag. My mother’s smile was sharp and predatory.
My father wore the expression he reserved for moments when he wanted to dominate. My sister already had her phone out, openly recording. My brother followed close behind, an eagerness in his eyes that made my stomach twist.
“We brought something special for the baby,” my mother announced loudly enough for the entire ward to hear. Her voice carried past the curtain dividers, reaching other new mothers and their families.
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