Voices shouting over one another.
Footsteps rushing across the floor.
The frantic rustle of scrubs and medical equipment as doctors and nurses crowded around me.
I could feel my body convulsing beneath the pain, muscles tightening in merciless spasms while they hurriedly wheeled me out of the labor room toward the emergency theatre.
And through all of it, I still did not understand what was happening.
I remembered asking what was wrong.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But no one answered me quickly enough.
Then came the warmth.
A horrifying rush between my legs— thick, hot liquid spreading beneath me faster than my mind could process.
Blood.
Too much blood.
I could feel it leaving my body in heavy waves while another savage cramp tore through my abdomen hard enough to force a scream from my throat.
That was the moment terror truly set in.
Because somewhere deep down, beneath the panic and denial, a part of me already knew.
Something was terribly wrong with my baby.
But I still refused to say it aloud.
Refused to let my mind touch the possibility.
As though denial alone could keep the truth from becoming real.
Until the doctors finally spoke the words that shattered what was left of me.
Placental abruption.
The placenta had detached too early from the womb, depriving my baby of oxygen before she could be delivered.
My daughter was already gone.
Gone while her heart had still been inside me.
Gone before I had ever gotten the chance to hold her.
Gone while I was still foolish enough to believe I was moments away from hearing her cry for the first time.
She had died inside me.
Since that day—
