My phone screen showed my deathly pale face. I called 120. Every second on the floor was torture.
I was shaking in pain. Twenty minutes later, the ambulance arrived, but I still had to walk downstairs on my own.
I forced myself up and went down the stairs, step by step. William had bought a walk-up apartment to save money and every step was torture.
After more than an hour, I finally reached the hospital. Sweat soaked my loose dress and the nurse frowned.
“Where’s your family? Tell him to handle the admission and change your wet clothes quickly, or you’ll catch a cold.”
Family member? For over an hour, Regina kept updating her WhatsApp—photos of William and the child, sometimes all three together.
My message went unanswered. I should have brought clean clothes, but in the rush, I brought nothing.
William was busy with another woman and a child. I smiled bitterly. “He’s busy.”
The nurse understood and softened her tone. “Do you have a friend you can call to help?”
I called William twice more, but he didn’t answer. I gave up on him and on this marriage. Six and a half hours later, I gave birth to a daughter.