A nurse rushed out to try to contain the chaos.
When the anesthesia finally kicked in, I drifted into a fog.
But even in that unconsciousness, the nightmare of my past life came roaring back—one brutal memory after another.
The day my son was born, my mother-in-law had conveniently left early for one of her 'morning walks.'
When my water broke, and I started bleeding, I called her eighteen times, but not once did she pick up.
With no other option, I turned to Aunt Clara. She was the one who rushed me to the hospital and stayed by my side when no one else did.
I was Native American. My husband, Paul, was white. If our son were officially listed under my tribal enrollment, he'd qualify for certain education benefits, including a boost in college admissions.
And it wasn't just about school.
My family owned several farms and over a dozen acres of land. That land could only be inherited if our son were listed under my name.
And so, before I went into labor, Paul and I had agreed: the baby would be registered under my name. Once Nathan turned eighteen, we could transfer it to Paul's name, if we wanted.