My husband, torn between hope and despair, drove me from one specialist to another. But every time labor began, as if on cue, my mother-in-law appeared in my room. Silent. Cold. Watching. And her words—the same cruel prophecy—echoed: “You will never give birth.”
Those eleven years felt endless. I could barely walk. Sleep became impossible. Each day, the pain threatened to tear me apart. And still, the curse held me hostage, its invisible hands clutching my womb, keeping the child trapped inside.
But then, on the morning of the twelfth year, everything changed.
I had been admitted to the hospital again, delirious from pain and exhaustion. My husband pleaded with the staff as I gasped, knowing instinctively that this labor was different. The air in the room felt heavier than ever. And there she was—my mother-in-law—standing at the doorway, her eyes black as midnight.
This time, I refused to submit. I stared back, shaking with pain but burning with determination. “No more!” I screamed. “You will not win!”
