“Let her suffer,” my husband sneered outside my delivery room. After 3 years of brutal abuse, I heard his mom whisper their final plan…

Another contraction ripped through me.

This one was worse than the last. My entire abdomen turned into a block of cement. The pain was so intense I saw white spots dancing in my vision. I didn’t have to fake the scream this time. It tore itself from my lungs, raw and guttural.

I writhed on the bed, my grip instinctively tightening on Mark’s hand, my fingernails digging into his skin.

He yanked his hand away in disgust.

“Fine,” Eleanor said coldly, looking down at me as if I were a piece of garbage rotting on the sidewalk. “Let her do it naturally. Let her feel every single second of it.”

She looked at Mark, giving him a microscopic nod.

It was a silent communication that chilled me to my core. Let her suffer. It doesn’t matter. We’ll get her anyway.

For the next four hours, I descended into a living hell.

Unmedicated labor is a primal, violent experience. Your body takes over completely, contorting and squeezing with a force that feels like it’s going to break your spine in half.

But the physical agony was secondary to the psychological torture.

I was completely trapped in a tiny room with my abusers.

Mark sat in the corner chair, scrolling on his phone. Every time a nurse came in, he would jump up, rush to my side, and wipe my forehead with a cool washcloth, whispering sweet encouragements.

“You’re doing so great, babe,” he would say loudly, making sure the nurse heard. “I’m so proud of you.”

The second the nurse left, he would drop the washcloth on my face and go back to his phone.

Eleanor never sat down.

She stood by the window, watching me. Just watching. For hours.

She was like a vulture waiting for an animal to finally stop twitching. Every time I cried out in pain, a tiny, satisfied smirk would touch the corners of her mouth. She was enjoying this. She was relishing every ounce of my suffering.

“Keep your voice down, Sarah,” she snapped during a particularly brutal contraction around 6:00 AM. “There are other women on this floor trying to have a peaceful experience. You sound like a slaughtered pig.”

“Please,” I gasped out, tears pouring down my face. “Please, just get me some ice.”

Mark didn’t even look up from his phone. “Get it yourself.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to retreat into my own mind. I had to focus on the baby. I had to focus on my little boy. Every wave of pain was bringing him closer. I just had to hold on.

But the despair was starting to creep in.

How was I going to get out of this?

Even if I avoided signing the paperwork, Eleanor said the doctor—the OB/GYN—was a friend of hers. They had a plan to put me on a psychiatric hold the second the baby was born. They were going to claim I was a danger to myself or the child. Postpartum psychosis. With my history of being an isolated, “unstable” housewife, and Mark’s pristine reputation, child protective services would hand the baby straight to him without blinking.

I needed outside help. I needed an ally.

But I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t ask for a phone. Mark had confiscated my purse the moment my water broke at home.

Around 7:30 AM, there was a knock on the door.

“Shift change!” a cheerful voice sang out.

A young nurse walked into the room. She looked to be in her late twenties, wearing bright floral scrubs and carrying a large thermal mug. She had kind, observant eyes. Her name tag read Chloe.

“Good morning, everybody,” Chloe said, setting her mug down on the counter. “I’m Chloe, I’ll be your primary L&D nurse for the rest of the day. Let’s see how our mama is doing.”

Mark immediately stood up, offering his most devastatingly charming smile. “Hi, Chloe. I’m Mark. This is my wife, Sarah. She’s been a total trooper all night, but she’s really exhausted.”

“I can imagine!” Chloe smiled back, but I noticed her eyes flickered over Mark’s face just a fraction longer than normal. It was a subtle, assessing look.

Chloe walked over to my bedside and gently placed her hands on my stomach, checking the position of the baby.

“Hi, Sarah,” she said softly. Her voice was incredibly soothing. “I hear you’re toughing this out without an epidural. You are a rockstar. How are you feeling right now?”

“Tired,” I croaked. My throat was raw from screaming.

“I’m going to check your dilation, okay?” she said, putting on a pair of sterile gloves.

As she examined me, another contraction started to build. I gritted my teeth, gripping the bed rails.

“Okay, breathe through it, Sarah,” Chloe coached, keeping her hand steady. “You’re at 7 centimeters. You are making great progress. We’re in the transition phase now. This is the hardest part, but it means you’re getting close.”

Transition. The phase where the body prepares to push. The pain is relentless, often accompanied by uncontrollable shaking and nausea.

Right on cue, a wave of intense nausea hit me.

“I’m going to throw up,” I gagged.

Mark rolled his eyes, stepping back from the bed in disgust. Eleanor wrinkled her nose and looked away.

Chloe, however, didn’t flinch. She grabbed a pink plastic emesis basin from the bedside table and quickly slid it under my chin.

“It’s okay, let it out,” she said gently, supporting my head with her other hand.

I dry-heaved into the basin, my whole body trembling violently.

As I leaned over the plastic bowl, my face was entirely hidden from Mark and Eleanor. Chloe was leaning in close, her ear just inches from my mouth as she rubbed my back.

This was my chance.

It was the only window I was going to get.

I grabbed the fabric of Chloe’s floral scrub top with my shaking hand. I pulled her down just a fraction of an inch closer.