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“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-“

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bound tightly in heavy steel handcuffs.

Sitting in my pristine office, I watched their disheveled, pathetic mugshots populate the local precinct’s digital arrest log. I felt no triumph. I felt no pity. A skilled surgeon does not mourn the tumor she has just excised; she simply sanitizes her instruments and prepares for the next patient.

“Raymond,” I continue reading …

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