When I was pregnant with twins, I begged my husband to take me to the hospital. But his mother blocked the doorway and said, “Take us to the mall first.”

At thirty-three weeks pregnant with twins, I suddenly felt intense contractions—quick, sharp, and coming far too fast. It was a scorching Sunday morning in Phoenix, the kind of heat that seemed to soak right into my bones. I clutched the doorframe to keep my balance and called out for my husband, Evan, who was in the kitchen with his mother, Margaret.

“Please,” I gasped, bending over as another contraction tore through me. “I need to go. Now.”

Evan’s eyes widened, and for a moment I believed that he would rush to help me. But before he could even take a step, Margaret planted her palm on his chest.

“Don’t start panicking,” she said sharply. “She’s dramatic when she’s uncomfortable. We need to go to the mall before the stores get crowded.”

I stared at her, stunned. “I’m not being dramatic. Something is wrong.”

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