She would don his pristine white coat, wield his favorite fountain pen and always call him Peter with such sweetness that could turn stomachs, making sure everyone within earshot was fully aware of their closeness.
Once, I had gone for a routine ultrasound and Millie had taken it upon herself to pose as the technician. I felt sharp discomfort as she carelessly used an unlubricated probe, which left me with inflammation and almost caused a miscarriage.
Furious, I filed a formal complaint with the hospital, hoping for justice.
But without concrete evidence, it was deemed “iatrogenic” and I was left without any recourse.
Rather than sympathy, Peter saw me as a jealous woman bent on creating trouble. His annoyance was palpable.
And by then, I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, too worn down by the endless clashes with my mother-in-law, the fatigue of my swollen body and Peter’s shifting affections to argue.
Yesterday, I arrived at the hospital for delivery and felt a sense of dread trickle down my spine. My eyes fell upon the head nurse—and it was Millie, her gaze too eager and self-satisfied.
An unsettling foreboding weighed down on me.