“STOP BEING A DRAMA QUEEN, ELARA. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, AND I WON’T LET YOUR ‘HEAVY PERIOD’ RUIN THE VIBE,” Mark shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of our sterile, ultra-modern suburban home in Seattle.
He didn’t look at me. He was too busy inspecting his reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of his designer cashmere sweater.
I was kneeling on the thick, cream-colored rug of our newly decorated nursery, one hand gripping the slats of the mahogany crib to keep myself upright. The other hand was pressed desperately against my abdomen. It had been ten days since I gave birth to our son, Leo. The doctor had warned me about postpartum complications, but the agonizing, tearing sensation deep in my pelvis was entirely new. The bleeding hadn’t stopped; it had accelerated into a terrifying, uncontainable flow.
I clutched the side of the crib harder, my knuckles turning bone-white, my face ashen and slick with a cold, clammy sweat.
“Mark, please,” I gasped, the room beginning to tilt violently on its axis. “Something is wrong. The bleeding… it isn’t stopping. I feel dizzy. I can’t stand up.”
Mark finally paused, but he didn’t walk toward me. He didn’t drop the expensive leather weekend duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Instead, he pulled out his phone, annoyed, and checked his new four-hundred-dollar smartwatch.
“Every woman bleeds, Elara,” he sighed, rolling his eyes as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum over a toy. “My mother had four kids and never complained once. You’re just trying to guilt-trip me into staying home because you’re jealous I’m going to the Cascades with the guys. Stop being a drama queen and take an aspirin. The nanny will be here on Monday.”
“I need a hospital,” I wheezed, my vision blurring at the edges.
“I need a break,” he snapped back. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, blew a kiss to his own reflection in the glass, and turned on his heel. “Don’t call me unless the house is actually on fire. I’m turning my phone on Do Not Disturb.”