With my cell phone taken away, and no landline in the apartment, calling for help wasn’t an option.

But I couldn’t just lie there and do nothing.

In a moment of desperation, I stood up, grabbed a coat, my wallet, and my ID, and headed to the stairs to catch a cab downstairs.

But as soon as I reached the first floor, a sharp pain shot through my belly—so intense that I could hardly move.

I broke out in a cold sweat, and my lower body felt heavy as if it were dragging me down.

I held onto the stair railing for support, trying to walk, but soon the pain was too much. I crumpled to the ground, barely able to think straight.

It was too early in the morning for anyone to be passing by—no neighbors, no one to help.

And then everything went black.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in a hospital room.

Mark was there, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand as he slept.

As soon as I remembered those disgusting videos of him with the other woman, my heart turned cold. I jerked my hand away. His hands, which once felt strong and comforting, became only filthy to me.

The sudden movement woke him up. He looked surprised but thrilled, and said, “Baby, you’re awake!”

The sound of him calling me baby made me want to throw up. It felt as if I had gulped down a swarm of flies, and they were squirming in my throat.

But I didn’t have the energy to fight with him right then.

I asked coldly, “Where’s the baby?”

Mark, still playing the part of the perfect husband, said softly, “The baby’s in the NICU. You just had a C-section, so you need to stay in bed for a couple of days before you can see her.”

I sighed in wonder. ‘I have a baby girl!’ Mark and I had decided to wait until the baby was born to discover the gender.

But I wasn’t buying that story about not being able to see my baby. “Mark, I want to see my baby. Now.”

Just then, a doctor came in to check on me and told me I wasn’t allowed to get out of bed yet. I had no choice but to wait.

But days passed—three, four, even more—and every time I asked to see my baby, Mark came up with a new excuse. He insisted that the baby had been sent to the NICU and that hospital policy didn’t allow parents to visit.

But I wasn’t an idiot. During my pregnancy, I had done my research. Even if other family members weren’t allowed in the NICU, hospitals always had set times when parents could visit their babies.

One day, when a nurse came in to check on me, I took the chance to ask her about my baby. She hesitated, her eyes full of sympathy, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t.

At that point, I knew something was terribly wrong. I had to see my baby, no matter what.

I confronted Mark the next time I saw him and demanded to see my baby. He realized he couldn’t keep lying to me any longer and finally admitted the truth.

“June,” he started, “you can’t see the baby right now.”

My heart began to race, and I wondered, ‘How seriously ill is my baby? Is there some kind of infection? A major complication?’

But then Mark said words I never expected to hear. “June, the baby didn’t make it.”

I slapped him hard across the face. “Say that again, Mark! Tell me that again!”

Tears welled up in his eyes as his cheek turned red. “The baby was stillborn,” he choked out. “She didn’t survive.”

I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was losing my mind. Ignoring the pain coursing through my body, I tore off the covers and stumbled out of bed, desperate to run.

Mark was quick to catch up, grabbing me by the waist and holding me tightly.

“Let go of me!” I screamed, sobbing uncontrollably, thrashing in his arms. People began to gather in the hallway, watching the scene unfold.

Mark wiped the tears from my face and said, “June, it’s the truth.”

I shook my head violently, crying out, “I don’t believe you!”

Mark sighed, his voice filled with sorrow. “June, if you don’t believe me, then I’ll take you to see her. Once you’ve seen her, you’ll understand.”