Air left my lungs in a violent whoosh. The world blurred to gray static. But the true pain came next—not the throbbing in my cheek, but the sharp, stabbing ache in my abdomen. I curled protectively around my belly, hands clutching my maternity jeans, shielding the life inside.
I looked for a flicker of remorse, but found only Margaret, adjusting her pearls with a sneer. “Don’t start with your drama,” she snapped. “You got what you deserved.” It was only when warmth spread across the tile that Ethan’s fury faltered. Margaret barked at him to call 911, seeing not tragedy but liability.
The ambulance ride was a haze of swinging IV bags and heavy, professional footsteps. In the ER, the silence of the exam room was deafening. My heart hammered until the Doppler monitor revealed the galloping beat of my daughter’s heart. Relief tore through me in guttural sobs. She was alive.
“How did you fall, Lauren?” the doctor asked, pen hovering over his chart.
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