During the final weeks of my pregnancy, I was visiting my husband’s family—my mother-in-law Margaret, his sister Linda, and their six-year-old son, Ryan. I was thirty-eight weeks along, exhausted, swollen, and cautiously counting the days until our baby’s arrival. My husband Daniel had stepped out briefly, promising to return within the hour.
Ryan had been unusually energetic that afternoon, bouncing from chair to chair despite repeated warnings. I tried to remain patient.
Then it happened. Ryan lost his balance and fell forward—crashing into me. A sharp pain shot through my side and abdomen, and in an instant, my water broke. Panic surged. I called for help, but Margaret and Linda dismissed it. “He didn’t mean to—it’s nothing,” they said. “Pregnant women overreact all the time.”
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