When I went into labor, my parents refused to take me to the hospital.

When I went into labor, my parents refused to take me to the hospital. Disbelief and hurt washed over me, but I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. The contractions were relentless, each one hitting like a tidal wave. Ignoring my family’s dismissive presence, I fumbled for my phone and opened the Uber app, requesting a ride.

Standing in my parents’ kitchen, knowing my life was about to change forever, I felt invisible, treated like an inconvenience rather than a daughter about to give birth. Minutes later, the car arrived. I managed to make my way outside, every step a painful reminder of the urgency of my situation.

The driver, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, immediately understood. “Hospital, right?” she asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, please,” I gasped, settling into the back seat, trying to ease the pain. Her presence was a balm, offering the compassion and understanding that my own family had withheld.

The ride was a blur of pain and anxiety. I focused on breathing, clutching the headrest, while the driver tried to keep the conversation light, telling me about her own kids and reassuring me that everything would be okay. Her words softened the raw edges of my fear, a steady lifeline amid the chaos of labor.
Read Part 2