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.”

Margaret waved a hand dismissively. “Women exaggerate pain all the time. If the babies were actually coming, you’d be screaming.”

Another contraction hit, and this one made my knees buckle. I crawled toward the couch, breath shaking, vision blurring. “Evan,” I whispered, “please. Help me.”

He hesitated.

“I promised Mom we’d take her,” he said. “Just a quick stop. We’ll be back soon.”

I could hardly comprehend what he’d said. My husband—my supposed partner—was choosing a trip to the mall over our unborn babies. Over me.

They walked out the door while I was still collapsed on the floor.

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