I went into labor, but my mother coldly said, “The hospital? Dinner comes first!” Then my sister laughed and set our car on fire. “Another useless human? What’s the point?” My 3-year-old son grabbed my hand and said, “Mom, it’s okay. I’ll protect you.” The next morning, they were in tears, begging us for forgiveness
I was eight months pregnant when my mother looked me in the eye and told me dinner mattered more than my labor.
My name is Emily Sanders, and if someone had told me a year earlier that the people most likely to let me die would be my own mother and sister, I would have called them cruel. But cruelty has a way of growing slowly inside a house until one day it no longer bothers to hide.
I was staying at my mother Margaret’s place because my husband, Michael, had been sent to Seattle for a short construction contract. It was supposed to be temporary, just a few weeks until he came back and our daughter was born. My three-year-old son, Ryan, stayed with me. Michael wanted us to be around family while he was away. He thought family meant safety. So did I, once.
The first contractions hit while I was chopping carrots in my mother’s kitchen.
At first I told myself it was just pressure, just another painful wave from late pregnancy. Then the second one came harder, and I had to brace myself against the counter. I remember the smell of roast chicken in the oven, the clink of my sister Jessica’s bracelets, and the way my mother never even turned around when I said, “Mom, I think something’s wrong.”
