Martha came up with some medical concoction she claimed an "expert" had sworn by to ensure a male child.
"Martha, that's nothing but superstition," I scoffed, "Pregnant women shouldn't mess with random meds."
She pretended to toss the recipe and agreed on the surface, yet she stealthily mixed it into my soups daily.
Each meal left a bitter taste in my mouth, which I blamed on pregnancy-related appetite issues.
The day everything came crashing down, I received an anonymous email with a video clip of Lucas and Melanie a bit too close for comfort.
I stormed home, only to find Martha secretly adding something to the soup she had prepared for me.
Our argument escalated quickly, and Lucas intervened, siding with her and slapping me across the face.
Soon after, I was pushed down the stairs, resulting in a broken tailbone and excruciating abdominal pain.
At the hospital, there was no time for anesthesia; I had a premature C-section.
The agony was indescribable as if my body was being torn apart.
The child I endured so much for was stillborn, and I almost died from the bleeding.
Just thinking about it sends a sharp pain through every nerve in my body.