I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain stabbed through my abdomen and I hissed. A nurse immediately stepped in and pressed a hand gently to my shoulder. “Easy,” she said. “You’ve had a procedure.”
“A procedure?” I repeated, voice thin.
My mother leaned forward, eyes swollen. “Honey—” she began.
“Where’s my baby?” I demanded, panic rising so fast I tasted metal.
Kara made a broken sound. Dylan covered his face with his hands and sobbed harder.
The nurse’s expression tightened into professional compassion.

She glanced at my chart, then at me. “Your doctor is on the way,” she said carefully. “But I can tell you this: you had significant bleeding and signs of placental abruption. We had to act quickly.”
Placental abruption.
I’d heard the term before in prenatal classes, the instructor’s voice careful: a serious condition where the placenta separates too early… can be life-threatening for mother and baby.
My lungs refused to fill. “Is my baby alive?” I whispered.
Silence.
Not the kind where people don’t know. The kind where they do.
My mother collapsed into the chair by my bed, sobbing into her hands. “We didn’t mean—” she gasped. “It was a joke. It was a stupid joke.”
Kara shook her head violently. “I swear, I didn’t think he’d hit you that hard,” she cried. “I thought you’d laugh after— I thought—”
I stared at her, disbelief turning to rage. “You filmed it,” I rasped. “You filmed my belly getting hit.”
Kara’s eyes darted down. “I— I thought it was—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
The nurse’s voice stayed steady. “Your baby is in the neonatal ICU,” she said gently. “The doctors are doing everything they can.”
That tiny thread of hope kept me from breaking apart. “Take me to him,” I begged.
“I can’t yet,” the nurse said. “You’re still at risk of hemorrhage. You need to stay monitored.”
My mother grabbed my hand tighter. “Please,” she sobbed. “Whatever happens… please don’t call the police.”
I froze. “What?”
Kara’s head snapped up. “Mom, stop!”