At thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twins, I knew the contractions I felt that afternoon were different. They were sharp, relentless, and terrifyingly close together. When I begged my husband, Travis, to take me to the hospital, he initially grabbed his keys—until his mother intercepted us. She insisted he drive her and his sister to the mall instead, dismissing my labor as exaggeration. Despite my pleas, Travis coldly ordered me not to move until he returned. His father agreed I could “wait a few hours.” They left me alone, trembling and in agony. Minutes later, my water broke. Panic set in as the contractions intensified and I struggled to stay conscious. By sheer luck, my old college friend Lauren stopped by. Hearing my cries, she rushed me to the hospital, running red lights as medical staff prepared for an emergency. Doctors quickly realized the babies were in distress, and the room filled with urgent voices and flashing monitors.

Then Travis stormed into the delivery room, furious—not worried. Instead of asking about our children, he accused me of creating “drama” and complained about hospital expenses, claiming he wouldn’t waste money on the pregnancy. His words stunned everyone present. Nurses froze. The doctor looked at him in disbelief. Even through the pain, I felt something inside me shift. This was no longer about surviving labor; it was about surviving the marriage. In that moment, surrounded by medical staff who treated me with more care than my own husband ever had, I realized I deserved protection, not cruelty. Whatever happened next would change my life forever.