“Mom… please… I’m about to give birth.” I clung to the sofa, trembling. She looked at her watch and said, “Sorry, it’s your sister’s party today. Call an Uber.” My sister laughed loudly, “I’m the star of the show today. Don’t ruin it.” After they left, I collapsed. A few days later, they arrived at the hospital… and screamed in horror.
“Mom… please… I’m about to give birth.”
I clutched the edge of the sofa, sweat soaking through my dress, a sharp pain tearing through my lower back. My contractions were less than five minutes apart. I could barely breathe, barely think.
My mother, Linda, didn’t even stand up. She glanced at her watch with irritation, as if I were making her late for something trivial.
“I already told you,” she said flatly. “It’s your sister’s birthday party today. Call an Uber.”
Across the room, my younger sister Emily adjusted her makeup in the mirror and laughed.
“I’ve been planning this party for weeks,” she said. “I’m the star today. Don’t ruin it with your drama.”
Drama.
I was nine months pregnant. My husband, Daniel, was overseas on a work trip he couldn’t leave. My doctor had warned me the baby might come early and fast. That morning, I had begged my mother to stay with me, just in case. She promised she would.
Now she was grabbing her purse.
“Mom, please,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t stand. Something feels wrong.”
She sighed loudly, annoyed. “You’re exaggerating like always. Women give birth every day. Call a car.”
They walked out together, laughing about decorations and guests, leaving the door to slam shut behind them. The silence that followed was terrifying.
I tried to reach my phone, but another violent contraction hit. I slid off the sofa and collapsed onto the floor. My vision blurred. I remember thinking, This can’t be happening like this.
When I finally woke up, bright lights burned my eyes. Machines beeped around me. A nurse was calling my name urgently.
“You’re in the hospital,” she said. “You lost consciousness at home. A neighbor heard you screaming and called emergency services.”
I turned my head slowly, panic flooding my chest.
“My baby?”
Her expression changed. She hesitated.
“He’s alive,” she said carefully. “But there were complications.”
A few days later, my mother and sister arrived at the hospital, smiling, carrying balloons and flowers.
The moment they saw the incubator…
They screamed in horror.”
They froze in the doorway.
The balloons slipped from my mother’s fingers and floated uselessly to the ceiling. Emily’s smile vanished so fast it was almost comical—if it hadn’t been so cruel.
Inside the incubator lay my son.
Tiny. Unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Tubes ran into his nose, wires clung to his fragile skin, machines breathing and blinking where he could not.
Emily let out a sharp scream.
“What… what is that?” she cried, covering her mouth. “Why does he look like that?!”
My mother staggered backward as if someone had struck her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “What happened?”
I watched them calmly. Too calmly. Something inside me had gone cold.
“What happened,” I repeated softly, “is that I went into labor alone.”
The nurse at my bedside stiffened but said nothing.
I continued, my voice flat, exhausted.
“I was unconscious for hours. The doctor said if the ambulance had arrived ten minutes later, he would’ve died. I nearly did.”
My mother shook her head rapidly.
“No—no, that’s impossible. You should’ve called again. Why didn’t you call me again?”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“I did. You didn’t answer. Remember? You were busy cutting cake.”
Emily’s eyes darted around the room, suddenly defensive.
“Don’t look at us like that. It’s not our fault your labor was… dramatic.”
The nurse snapped then.
“Excuse me,” she said sharply. “This baby suffered oxygen deprivation because his mother collapsed during active labor. This was a medical emergency.”
Silence slammed into the room.
My mother’s knees buckled, and she grabbed the chair.
“Oxygen deprivation?” she whispered. “So… so he’ll be okay, right?”
The doctor entered at that moment, clipboard in hand.
“We won’t know for sure,” he said honestly. “The next few weeks are critical. There may be long-term consequences.”
Emily burst into tears.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” she sobbed. “This is ruining everything!”
I turned my head slowly and looked at her for the first time since they arrived.
“No,” I said quietly. “You ruined everything.”
My mother rushed to my side, reaching for my hand.
“I didn’t know,” she cried. “If I had known it was this serious—”
I pulled my hand away.
“I told you,” I said. “I begged you.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Days passed. My son fought silently inside that glass box while I sat beside him, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.
My mother came every day after that. She brought soup I couldn’t eat, flowers I didn’t look at. Emily came once more—only once—stood awkwardly at the door, and left without speaking.
Then one afternoon, a social worker came to my room.
“We received a report,” she said gently. “About abandonment during medical distress.”
My mother’s face drained of color.
“A… a report?”
I nodded.
“I told them the truth,” I said.
She dropped to her knees.
“I’m your mother,” she sobbed. “How can you do this to me?”
I looked at my son—still fighting, still breathing.
“You stopped being my mother the moment you chose a party over my life,” I said softly. “Now I’m choosing my child.”
Weeks later, my son came home.
He was small. Fragile. But alive.
My mother never did forgive me.
But as I held my baby against my chest, feeling his tiny heartbeat, I realized something important:
Some screams come too late.
And some forgiveness should never be given.