Chapter 2 - THE HANDBAG SALE
The contractions began shortly after noon.
At first, I thought they were the irregular tightening my obstetrician had warned could happen near the end of pregnancy.
I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twins.
That was considered an advanced and closely monitored stage for a twin pregnancy. My delivery had already been scheduled for the following week if labor did not begin naturally.
By one o’clock, the pain came every seven minutes.
By one thirty, I could no longer speak through it.
Travis sat at the breakfast table scrolling through his phone.
“Call the hospital,” I said.
“You called yesterday.”
“Yesterday was pressure. This is different.”
“You’ve said that three times this month.”
I gripped the counter.
A contraction tightened across my abdomen like a metal band.
“I need you to drive.”
He looked toward the hallway.
His mother, Deborah, had arrived that morning with Martin and Travis’s younger sister, Jenna.
They claimed they wanted to help prepare for the babies.
Instead, Deborah criticized the nursery, reorganized my kitchen, and announced that the hospital bag I packed looked cheap.
When Travis reached for his keys, relief nearly made me cry.
Then Deborah stepped into the entrance.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Megan thinks she’s in labor.”
Deborah looked at the clock.
“Take Jenna and me to the mall first.”
I believed she was joking.
She continued:
“The Saint Laurent sale ends at five. They’re holding the handbag for me, but only until four.”
“I’m going to the hospital,” I said.
“You’re standing and speaking.”
“So?”
“So it cannot be serious.”
“My doctor told me to come in if contractions were regular or if anything felt wrong.”
“Doctors tell nervous women everything is urgent because they fear lawsuits.”
Another contraction bent me over the counter.
Travis reached toward me, but Deborah caught his arm.
“She did this during the baby shower.”
“I had false labor.”
“And everyone left early. You have a pattern.”
I stared at Travis.
“Please.”
He looked from me to his mother.
That should not have been a decision.
“Could we drop them at the mall on the way?”
“No.”
“It’s ten minutes.”
“It’s in the opposite direction.”
Deborah exhaled dramatically.
“I cannot believe one handbag is creating this level of selfishness.”
I almost laughed.
Then pain stole the breath from me.
“I am carrying your grandchildren.”
“They are not arriving today.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I gave birth twice. I know labor.”
“Every pregnancy is different.”
She pointed toward the sofa.
“Lie down. Drink water. Stop frightening everyone.”
I looked toward Martin.
He had been standing near the coat rack with my car keys in his hand.
I had asked him to pick them up after I dropped them during a contraction.
“Please drive me.”
He shrugged.
“She can wait a few hours. It’s not that serious.”
Jenna avoided my eyes.
Travis removed my hand from his sleeve.
“Don’t you dare move until I get back.”
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“You’re emotional. If you drive, you could hurt yourself.”
“Then call an ambulance.”
“That will cost thousands.”
“I have insurance.”
“There are still deductibles.”
The conversation was insane.
I was begging for medical care.
They were discussing a handbag, embarrassment, and money.
Deborah opened the door.
“Come on. We’ll be quick.”
Travis ushered them outside.
I followed as far as the entryway.
“Travis!”
He turned.
“What?”
“My contractions are less than five minutes apart.”
“Then lie down.”
“I need help.”
His expression hardened because my desperation had become inconvenient.
“I said wait.”
The door closed.
The deadbolt clicked.
He had locked it from outside using his key, though the inside thumb turn still worked.
For several seconds, I stood staring at the wood.
Then another contraction forced me to the floor.
I crawled toward the kitchen where my phone had been charging.
It was gone.
Travis had taken it from the counter earlier because he said I was “obsessively timing” the contractions.
The house phone had been disconnected months before.
He claimed nobody needed landlines anymore.
I tried to stand.
My legs shook.
Water rushed down my thighs.
The fluid was not clear.
A dark reddish stain spread across my clothes.
Terror sharpened everything.
I dragged myself toward the front door.
My fingers reached the lock.
I turned it.
Then dizziness forced me down again.
The distance between the floor and the doorbell became impossible.
Twenty minutes passed.
Maybe thirty.
Pain erased time.
I shouted for the neighbor.
No one answered.
My parents were on a cruise in the Mediterranean.
My closest friends believed I wanted privacy because Travis had quietly answered messages for months.
I had allowed it.
Pregnancy exhausted me.
Every social interaction became an argument afterward.
Lauren was too loud.
Maria asked intrusive questions.
My sister encouraged me to disrespect him.
Eventually, isolation felt easier than defending every friendship.
That was what control often looked like.
Not one locked room.
A series of doors that became too tiring to open.
Then the bell rang.
I thought I imagined it.
It rang again.
A fist pounded against the door.
“Megan?”
Lauren.
I screamed until my throat tore.
“Help me!”
The handle moved.
The door opened.
Travis had locked the deadbolt, but he had not pulled the door fully closed before turning the key. The latch had failed to catch.
Lauren stepped inside holding the yellow invitation.
Her smile disappeared.
I was on the floor near the sofa, soaked with fluid and blood.
“Oh my God.”
She dropped the envelope and ran toward me.
“Where is Travis?”
“The mall.”
“What?”
“His mother wanted a handbag.”
Lauren took out her phone immediately.
She called 911.
The dispatcher asked questions while Lauren placed towels beneath me and unlocked the front entrance completely.
“Thirty-eight weeks with twins,” she said. “Contractions under three minutes. Her water broke, and there is blood.”
The dispatcher instructed her not to drive me.
An ambulance was eight minutes away.
Lauren remained on speaker.
Then she used my smartwatch to locate Travis’s number and called him from her phone.
He answered over music and crowd noise.
“What?”
“This is Lauren. Megan is in labor and bleeding.”
Silence.
Then:
“Why are you in my house?”
“She needs a hospital.”
“I told her to wait.”
Lauren looked at me.
The dispatcher was still connected on another line, and her phone automatically preserved the emergency communication.
“She cannot wait.”
“We’re paying now.”
“Leave the store.”
“My mother has been waiting months for this bag.”
I cried out through another contraction.
Travis heard me.
“Megan,” he said sharply, “stop making this worse.”
“I’m scared.”
“You were supposed to stay on the sofa.”
“There’s blood.”
Deborah’s voice came through the background.
“Tell her first-time mothers always panic.”
Lauren’s expression became murderous.
“She is carrying twins.”
“So?” Deborah answered. “Women gave birth at home for centuries.”
Martin spoke next.
“If she can yell like that, she’s breathing fine.”
The paramedics entered while the call remained open.
One knelt beside me.
The other heard Travis say:
“Do not let her leave until I get back.”
The paramedic looked at Lauren.
“End the call. We are transporting now.”
Lauren did not end it immediately.
She said:
“I am recording every word.”
Travis became silent.
Then disconnected.
By the time they returned home with shopping bags, the living room contained blood-stained towels, opened medical packaging, a police officer documenting the scene, and the yellow wedding invitation lying beside the sofa.
Travis dropped to his knees.
May you like
Not because he understood what he had done.
Because the officer told him my condition was critical and asked why he had removed my phone.
