“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-“
will be filed with a sympathetic judge before the sun crests the horizon, Doctor Palmer. Conserve your strength.”
Terminating the call, I reached with agonizing slowness into my discarded, blood-spattered handbag resting on the bedside table. My fingers brushed against a cold, rectangular object—a miniature, high-fidelity digital audio recorder. As continue reading …
