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.” (2 of 3)

“This isn’t about me,” I pleaded, gripping the rails of the hospital bed. “Our babies are in danger.”

“You always need attention,” he hissed. “You think being pregnant makes you royalty?”

Then, before anyone could react, he grabbed my hair and yanked it back. I cried out. His hand met my face with a vicious slap, and then—worse—he struck my swollen belly.

Chaos erupted. A nurse screamed. A security guard rushed in. Evan was pulled away, snarling threats, as the staff formed a wall between us.

My body trembled, but I clutched one thought: protect my children. Dr. Kim appeared at my side, her voice calm but urgent. “We need to operate now.”

“Do it,” I whispered. “Please, save them.”

The next time I opened my eyes, I heard a soft cry. A nurse placed a tiny bundle into my arms. “Your son,” she said. A moment later, his sister followed.

I named them Max and Isla. Holding them, I vowed: they would never feel unsafe. Not like I did.

Mae came to visit later, her eyes full of worry. “Lila,” she said, “you’re not going back there. You and the twins are coming home with me.”

Her apartment was a haven, but the trauma haunted me. Evan’s voice echoed in my head. You’re nothing. You’ll regret this.

“You need more than distance,” Mae told me one morning. “You need justice.”