The next afternoon, maintenance staff “checked” smoke detectors.
Small cameras appeared near the ceiling.
Nurses were informed.
Security waited nearby.
At 2:06 p.m., my mother stormed into Room 418.
No greeting.
“Transfer the money,” she demanded.
“I’m in labor monitoring,” I said. “It’s for my baby.”
“She’s not even born yet!” my mother snapped. “Taylor’s wedding is in June.”
“We’re not leaving until you send it,” my father added.
“No.”
My mother stepped closer.
“Account login. Now.”
“No.”
Her face twisted with rage.
Then she raised both fists and slammed them into my stomach.
The pain exploded through me.
My water broke instantly.
Monitors screamed.
I screamed.
And still my father said, “That’s what you get for being selfish.”
Taylor texted: Tell her to hurry and pay.
Kevin called.
My mother leaned over me, furious.
“Transfer it.”
The door burst open.
Detective Sarah Brennan stood there with two officers.
Behind them—Graham, recording.
“Step away from the patient,” Brennan ordered.
My parents froze.
“You just assaulted a pregnant woman,” Brennan said. “That’s a felony.”
“And we have it on video,” Graham added, nodding toward the cameras.
Within minutes, my parents were in handcuffs.
Taylor went pale.
Kevin was told to come in for questioning.
And I was rushed into emergency surgery.
The C-section was a blur of bright lights and metallic sounds.
I heard her cry.
Small. Fragile. Alive.
Four pounds, eleven ounces.
She was taken to the NICU.
She breathed on her own.
