“That’s your punishment!” Eliza laughed, dusting herself off as if she’d thrown garbage on me.
My mother-in-law, Greta, pointed at me with a trembling finger, her eyes blazing with hatred.
“You stole my son! He never loved you! You only got pregnant to trap him!”
I tried to speak, but only a moan escaped. Between my legs, hot and sudden, I felt the burst: my water broke. The carpet darkened beneath me, but neither of them made a move to help me.
“Greta… please…” I whispered, clinging to the edge of the table to keep from falling.
“Don’t say my name,” she spat. “I hope that child isn’t born.”
Eliza burst into laughter, savoring every second of my pain.
“Oh, leave her alone, Mom. She’s been asking for it. Always so kind, so ‘perfect,’ so ‘saintly’ in front of the neighbors… Disgusting.”
I felt my vision blur. The pain intensified, a violent pressure piercing my abdomen. I wanted to back away, to protect my belly, but my legs were shaking too much.
“I’m going… to the hospital…” I managed to say, trying to walk toward the door.
But Eliza blocked my path, placing her hand on my chest.
“You’re not moving from here. You’ll wait until Lars gets back. He’ll decide.”
Just then, the front door slammed open. The sound of keys hitting the floor echoed through the house. My husband, Lars, appeared, his face contorted with shock. He looked at the puddle at my feet. My ragged breathing. My trembling hands on my belly.
Then he saw his sister, still smiling, and his mother, her accusing finger still pointed.
Lars’s expression changed in an instant. A shadow crossed his eyes. His jaw clenched, his bones showing.
“What… have you… done?” His voice was so low and so cold that even Eliza took a step back.
I tried to reach him, but my legs gave way. Before I fell, Lars gently caught me.
And in that moment, I knew: something inside him had snapped.
And what came next… there was no going back.
Lars lifted me in his arms, his gaze never leaving his mother and sister. His steps were quick, tense, almost violent. I could feel his heart pounding furiously against my arm.
“I’m going to take you to the hospital,” he whispered, his voice trembling with rage.
“Lars, don’t be so dramatic,” Greta spat. “That woman always exaggerates.”
He stopped. He turned his head slowly toward them.
“The next time I hear you talk about her like that… you won’t even be able to take it back.”
Eliza giggled.
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I just pushed her away.”
“Pulled her away?” Lars took a step toward her, still carrying me. “Move her away, Eliza? Or push an eight-months-pregnant woman against a table?”
The smile vanished from his face.
He left the house without another word. As I was being helped into the car, I tried to speak:
“Lars… it hurts…”
“I know, love. Hang in there. I’m here.”
During the drive to the hospital in Málaga, where we lived, the pressure mounted and fear chilled me to the bone. I had a feeling something was wrong.
When we arrived, a nurse recognized me immediately and called an emergency team. They took me to a room while Lars spoke with the doctor, Dr. Alcántara, his face contorted with worry.
