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I begged my husband, Evan, to take me to the hospital. “Figure it out,” he muttered. “I’m not wasting gas for another false alarm.”

“You’re really doing this?” he barked, ignoring the machines beeping around me. “You expect me to burn through our savings for this performance?”I was 36 weeks pregnant with twins, clinging to the edge of consciousness, when my husband stormed into the hospital room, not with concern, but fury. What should’ve been a moment of care turned violent—he grabbed my hair, slapped me, and struck my swollen belly. The world around me blurred, panic rising in my throat. All I could think of was protecting my babies, when suddenly the door burst open and someone shouted…

They say your life flashes before your eyes when death feels near—but for me, it wasn’t my past I saw. It was two tiny heartbeats on a monitor and the man who should’ve protected them towering over me, his fists shaking with rage.

My name is Lila. I was 36 weeks pregnant with twins when the contractions hit hard. I begged my husband, Evan, to take me to the hospital. He didn’t even look up from his phone. “Figure it out,” he muttered. “I’m not wasting gas for another false alarm.”

I clutched my belly, tears stinging my eyes, and dialed my old friend, Mae. Within minutes, she was at my door, helping me into her car. I thought the worst part was behind me—until Evan barged into the delivery room like a storm.

“You’re really doing this?” he barked, ignoring the machines beeping around me. “You expect me to burn through our savings for this performance?”