The miracle of childbirth shifted to terror in a heartbeat. Minutes earlier, the room had been filled with the raw, exhausted joy of new life. Now, the air was thick with danger. I pressed my cheek to the cold linoleum, the hospital floor indifferent to my sweat and blood. Above the bed, the world had transformed into a surreal landscape of sharp heels, sterile whites, and quiet menace. My heart pounded in my ears, each beat a drum of panic.
Emily, my daughter, stood by the door. Too small to be a guardian, yet she radiated courage. Her tiny, sparkly-laced shoes were all I could see, but they formed an unspoken shield between me and the threat—Linda and the doctor.
“Where is she?” the doctor’s clipped voice cut through the tension.
“She just delivered. She’s weak; she can’t be far,” Linda replied, her voice sharpened with control and calculation. “Check the bathroom. She’s probably collapsed.”
I held my breath as the doctor shuffled toward the en-suite, the polished black shoes slicing through the quiet. Every rustle of my gown felt deafening. My body was drained, my mind racing—but instinct and maternal instinct merged into a single, urgent focus: survival.
“Mom went to see the baby,” Emily’s small voice cut through the tension, soft but steady. “The nurse took her to the nursery. She’ll be back soon.”
Linda’s disbelief was immediate. “Impossible. She couldn’t have gone that far alone.”
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