The fire on the first floor was gradually extinguished and thick smoke billowed.
Several neighbors were successfully rescued, but that three people had not yet come out.
Soon, the abdominal pain came again, and a warm current flowed from under my body.
When the firefighters carried three unconscious people out, I screamed with all my might, pointing at the fire, "Calvin!"
But I couldn't stand up anymore.
My neighbor noticed my distress, saw the blood on my pajama pants, and panicked, calling for help, "She's bleeding."
The bright red blood in the darkness was like a gorgeous flower of life.
As I lay on the stretcher, I couldn't hold back the pain and fainted.
My throat felt dry and painful when I woke up.
My hand instinctively went to my abdomen, which was now flat and empty. My child was gone.
My mom handed me a glass of water, her eyes red and tears brimming.
I drank it in one gulp and asked her, "Mom, where's Calvin?"
My mother's face was filled with anger, tears welled up in her eyes, "Wendy..."
She handed me the miscarriage report, saying, "You were bleeding too much when you came into the hospital. The baby is gone."
Her expression was a mixture of grief and fury.