My name is Isabelle Laurent. I learned that sometimes the people who are supposed to help you are the ones who hurt you most—until someone who loves you steps in.
The maternity reception at St. Claire’s Medical Center in Philadelphia felt colder than it should. Pale blue walls reflected the harsh overhead lights. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic. There was no comfort, no warmth for a woman in pain.
I was twenty-nine, seven months pregnant, and terrified. That morning, persistent cramps sent me into a panic. Dr. Monroe, my obstetrician, had urged me to come immediately. His urgent tone left my hands shaking as I grabbed my purse and called a taxi.
I expected reassurance. Instead, I received humiliation.
