By Emma Collins • February 26, 2026 • Share
When I was pregnant with twins and suffering intense labor pains, I begged my husband to take me to the hospital. Just as we were heading out, my mother-in-law stopped us and said, “Where are you trying to go? Come and take me and your sister to the mall instead.” He immediately refused to drive me and said, “Don’t you dare move until I come back.” My father-in-law chimed in, “She can wait a few hours. It’s not that serious.” They all walked out, leaving me bent over and trembling in pain. By chance, an old friend stopped by and helped me get to the hospital. Suddenly, my husband stormed into the delivery room and shouted, “Stop this drama. I won’t waste my money on your pregnancy.” When I called him greedy, he yanked my hair and slapped me across the face. I cried out in agony. Then he punched my pregnant stomach. What happened next was unbelievable.
The contractions began around three in the afternoon. A sharp, burning pain tore through my abdomen, each surge stronger than the last. I clutched the kitchen counter, my knuckles turning white against the marble as sweat gathered on my brow.
“Travis,” I called out, my voice tight with strain. “Travis, we need to go to the hospital. The babies are coming.”
My husband stepped out of the living room, where he had been watching TV with his parents. At thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twins, I had experienced Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks, but this was nothing like that. This was real labor, and every instinct told me something was terribly wrong.
Travis grabbed his car keys from the hook by the door. For a brief second, relief flooded me. After everything his family had put me through during this pregnancy, surely he would come through now. Surely he understood how serious this was.
“Let’s go,” he said, reaching for my arm.
We made it only three steps toward the garage before his mother’s voice sliced through the moment.
“Where are you trying to go?” Deborah demanded, stepping directly in front of us. Behind her, his younger sister Vanessa smirked, spinning her designer purse around her finger. “Come and take me and your sister to the mall instead. The sale at Nordstrom ends today, and I absolutely must have that handbag I showed you.”
I stared at her, stunned, as another contraction built. “Deborah, I’m in labor. The twins—”
“Oh, please.” She flicked her hand dismissively. “First-time mothers always exaggerate. My labor with Travis lasted sixteen hours. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Travis looked back and forth between his mother and me, his jaw tightening. My heart sank at the expression I recognized too well. He was going to give in.
“Travis,” I whispered, gripping his sleeve. “Please. Something isn’t right.”
“Don’t you dare move until I come back,” he snapped, pulling his arm away—his tone cold and authoritative in a way I had never heard directed at me before.
His father, Gerald, stepped out from the hallway, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. “She can wait a few hours. It’s not that serious.” He clapped Travis on the shoulder. “Women have been giving birth forever. Take your mother shopping. She’s been waiting all week.”
I tried to protest, but Travis was already guiding his mother and sister out the door. Deborah shot me a satisfied look, her lips curved in triumph. “Just lie down on the couch,” Travis called without turning around. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
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