"The baby is likely lost. Where's her husband? We need his signature for the procedure."
"She's my daughter—I can sign! Doctor, please, you have to save her—"
"Per hospital policy, for an emergency procedure like this, we need the patient's husband present. There may be implications for her future fertility."
The doctor's urgent instructions, my mother's desperate pleas, my father's barely contained fury—all of it tangled together in a deafening knot.
I lay on the bed gasping for air, riding out wave after wave of searing pain. Then I heard my father on the phone with Ivan.
"Ivan Vance! Get yourself to this hospital. Now."
On the other end, Ivan's voice was tinged with surprise. "Dad? Is Stella throwing a fit about going to the hospital again? Ever since she got pregnant, she's been paranoid—always convinced something's wrong with the baby."
"It's just a pregnancy. A friend of mine was a few months along and still unclogging her own toilet, changing lightbulbs, hauling packages."
"Stella's just too high-maintenance."
Accusation after accusation. My father finally snapped. I heard him speak through gritted teeth: "If you don't get here right now, the Hayward family will never let this go."