“Fetal heart rate is seventy! We can’t wait any longer. Prep her for a C-section now!”
“Where’s her family? We need a signature!”
I lay on the delivery bed at Salton Hospital, my amniotic fluid long gone, cramps twisting through my abdomen like someone was churning a knife inside me.
The monitor’s alarm grew more and more urgent. A nurse pushed medication while calling my husband, Benjamin Whitaker. No one answered. She called my mother-in-law, Mrs. Whitaker. Still no answer.
The pain made my vision go dark. With trembling fingers, I unlocked my phone and called the smartwatch of my six-year-old son, Sebastian.
The moment the screen lit up, applause poured through first. Sebastian stood in a concert hall in a little suit, frowning at me. “Mom, why are you calling again?”
My throat was dry and raw. “Sebastian, give the phone to Dad.”
“Dad said he can’t answer the phone. Aunt Evelyn’s concert is about to start.”
Evelyn Ashford. My younger sister by adoption. Tonight was her first cello solo recital.
My husband was there. My mother-in-law was there. My adoptive parents were there. Even the son I had raised with my own hands was there. I was the only one absent, because they had said a pregnant woman shouldn’t go and cause trouble.
I endured the stabbing pain. “Sebastian, Mommy’s about to give birth. Tell Dad to answer the phone.”
The screen jolted. Mrs. Whitaker’s face crowded into the frame, her brows deeply furrowed.
“Jasmine, isn’t your due date next week?”
“Today is Evelyn’s big day.”
“Don’t start trying to steal attention again.”
Steal attention? A bone-deep chill spread through me.
My adoptive mother, Mrs. Ashford, also appeared on the screen, disappointment in her voice. “Jasmine, you’ve been sensible since you were little. Why are you being so willful today of all days?”
Sensible. I had heard that word for more than twenty years.
When I was a child, Evelyn went missing, and the Ashfords adopted me from an orphanage. But three years ago, after Evelyn was found and brought back, I finally understood. Being an adopted daughter wasn’t an identity. It was a term limit.
I bit my lip, the taste of blood spreading through my mouth. “Mom, someone knocked me down. I really am going into labor...”
The call was cut off. Cleanly.
I lay on the hospital bed, sweat sliding from the corner of my eye into it, the pain leaving me almost powerless. I was anxious and furious, but I couldn’t collapse.
I called Benjamin again. Just before the ringing ended, he finally picked up.
“Jasmine. If it isn’t urgent, why do you keep calling?”
“I’m in labor. They’re doing a C-section right now. Come back and sign.”
Silence.
It was brief, but long enough for me to hear him weighing his options.
“Aren’t the doctors with you? Listen to them for now. Evelyn is about to go onstage. I can’t leave.”
I can’t leave. Those words poured over me like ice water from head to toe. So at the edge of life and death, my life and my child’s life still mattered less than one piece of music from Evelyn.
Sebastian’s voice suddenly came from the other end of the call. “Dad, Mom is so annoying. Why is Aunt Evelyn so gentle, but Mom always makes people unhappy?”
My heart sank hard.
The next second, he said again:
“I really wish Aunt Evelyn were my mom.”
In that instant, the world went quiet. All I heard was the son I had raised with my own hands, driving the deepest knife into me in the lightest tone.
Benjamin didn’t scold him, nor did he correct him.
He only said flatly, “Jasmine, if you’re not going to talk, I’m hanging up. We’ll discuss this after the concert.”
The call was cut off again.
I was still holding the phone to my ear. Another wave of agony tore through my abdomen before reality dragged me back by force.
The doctor asked in a low voice, “Do you want to keep calling?”
I stared at the ceiling and suddenly gave a small laugh. “No.”
I should have woken up three years ago, when Evelyn came back. My parents favored her. My mother-in-law doted on her. My husband protected her. Even my son revolved around her.
I had kept being sensible, kept giving way, hoping they would finally see me.
Only now did I understand. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. From beginning to end, I had never been their choice.
I propped myself up, cold sweat dripping onto the consent form.
The nurse hurriedly supported me. “Are you sure you want to sign it yourself?”
“I’m sure. I’ll bear the consequences myself.”