“You’ll suffer naturally because you’re toxic,” my doctor husband sneered, blocking the nurses from performing a C-section for my giant 10-pound baby as revenge for his intern. I writhed in pain, clutching the bed rails until my knuckles turned white. When the grueling delivery finally ended, the heavy delivery room doors banged open. My husband staggered in, his face drained of color as he looked at the newborn chart, fell to the floor, and shrieked, “No… that’s impossible! Whose child is-“
I stepped out from beneath the coat’s protection, walking slowly until I stood directly over Bradley’s writhing, pathetic form. I looked down into his weeping, agonized face.
“Allow me to offer you your final, terminal diagnosis, Bradley,” I commanded.
He whimpered, curling tighter into a ball, clutching his ruined hand.