Before delivery, when I was admitted to the hospital, my mom stormed into my room, shouting in rage,
“Hand over the $25,000 delivery fund right now. Your sister needs it more.”
When I refused, saying,
“This is for my baby’s medical care.”
She clenched both fists and struck my 9-month pregnant belly with all her strength. My water broke instantly, and I screamed in pain, collapsing on the hospital bed.
Dad, who was with her, added,
“That’s what you get for being selfish.”
Sister texted from outside,
“Tell her to hurry up and pay.”
Brother called. “Just take the money and leave.”
But then, with a loud bang, the door flew open and my mother froze in terror because standing there was—
I never wanted to believe my family hated me. Even after everything they put me through, I held on to hope that somewhere beneath their cruelty was actual love.
That hope died on March 15th, 2024, in room 418 of Cedar Valley Medical Center. The pregnancy hadn’t been easy. My husband, Jason, died in a construction accident when I was 5 months along, leaving me alone with mounting medical bills and a high-risk pregnancy.
The baby had a heart condition that required specialist care. Every penny I earned from my job as a paralegal went toward saving for the delivery and the immediate postnatal care my daughter would need. Jason’s death had been sudden and devastating.
One moment, he was kissing me goodbye before heading to the construction site in downtown Portland. And twelve hours later, two police officers were at my door with expressions that told me everything before they spoke a word. A scaffold collapse.
Three workers killed instantly. My husband—the father of my unborn child—gone in seconds. His life insurance policy had lapsed two months earlier.
He’d forgotten to pay it during a particularly busy work period, and neither of us had noticed until after his death, when I desperately needed those funds. The construction company offered a settlement of $40,000, which their lawyers made clear was generous, given that Jason had signed extensive liability waivers. I took it because I had no choice, no energy to fight, and a baby growing inside me who needed stability.
That money went toward paying off Jason’s truck, settling his credit card debt, covering the funeral expenses, and catching up on rent I’d fallen behind on during my grief-induced inability to work for six weeks. By the time everything was settled, I had $8,000 left—nothing near enough for what was coming. The heart condition was discovered during my 20-week anatomy scan.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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