The screech of metal, the searing pain, then black. That’s all I remembered of the accident. My work injury. I was so grateful when I woke up, hazy and weak, to see my husband’s kind face, my mother-in-law hovering nearby, her hand cool on my forehead. They were my rock, my support system.
They brought me home from the hospital, to our cozy bedroom, where I was told I needed complete bed rest. My leg was shattered, my arm a mess. They transformed the room into a recovery ward. Medications, food, water – everything came from them. They were tireless, or so it seemed. Such dedication, I thought.
At first, I didn’t mind the solitude. I was in too much pain to care. But as the fog of painkillers began to lift, a subtle shift occurred. The door, once left ajar, started to be closed. Then, I heard the faint click of a lock. My husband would explain, “It’s for your own good, darling. Don’t want you trying to get up and hurting yourself worse.” My mother-in-law would add, “We just want you to focus on healing, sweetheart.” It made sense, didn’t it?
A businessman speaking to someone | Source: Midjourney
Days bled into weeks. My phone was “misplaced” – for my peace of mind, they said. Friends and family who called were told I was “too weak to talk,” or “sleeping.” I asked to see a doctor for a follow-up, but they insisted they had “everything covered.” My husband, a nurse himself, assured me he was monitoring my progress. I trusted him implicitly.
But the questions started to pile up. Why no fresh air? Why did my food taste bland, almost medicinal, regardless of what it was? Why did I feel so perpetually groggy, even after stopping the heavy painkillers? Why did I always sleep through the night, a deep, dreamless void, only to wake up feeling oddly disconnected from my own body? Something was wrong. I could feel it.
I tried to object. I tried to reason. “I need to talk to my sister,” I pleaded one afternoon. My husband just smiled, a strained, thin smile. “Later, when you’re stronger.” His mother, ever the gentle enforcer, stroked my hair. “Patience, my dear. It’s a long road to recovery.”
The confinement began to eat at me. My mind, once sharp, felt dull, heavy. I started to resent their constant presence, their manufactured cheerfulness. I craved autonomy, even just to choose what book to read, but even my reading material was vetted. My room, once a sanctuary, became a prison.
One night, the fear truly set in. I’d pretended to be asleep, listening to their hushed voices from the hallway. “She’s getting suspicious,” my mother-in-law whispered. “We need to increase the dosage. Just until we’re past the critical stage.” My husband replied, “It’s almost time. Just a few more weeks. She’ll adapt.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Dosage? Critical stage? ADAPT? What were they talking about? I lay there, trembling, as the realization began to dawn on me: This wasn’t just about my injury. This was something far, far worse.
A man lounging on a sofa | Source: Midjourney
The next day, desperation fueled me. While my husband was out of the room, ostensibly preparing my meal, I clawed my way across the floor, my broken leg screaming in protest. I needed proof. I needed answers. My gaze fell upon an old, unused drawer in his bedside table – a place he usually kept locked. To my shock, it was slightly ajar.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it open. Inside, beneath a pile of old socks, was a small, worn leather journal. His journal? I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. I flipped it open, my eyes scanning the hurried script.
Entry after entry detailed their plan. His mother’s longing for a grandchild, her subtle manipulations. My own struggles with fertility, the quiet despair we’d shared. The work injury, an unexpected, brutal gift.
Then, a date. A procedure. My name. Words like “in vitro,” “implantation,” “sedation,” “consent waiver.” And finally, the entry that shattered my world, making my breath catch in my throat, hot tears blinding me.
“The embryo transfer was successful. Two weeks post-procedure. The injury has given us the perfect cover. She’ll never know we used her own eggs, fertilized with the donor we chose. She’ll think it’s a miracle, a natural conception after all this time. We’ll tell her when it’s safe. When she has no choice but to accept it. Our dream, finally realized. My mother is ecstatic.”
My vision swam. My work injury. The constant grogginess. The isolation. The “critical stage.” The bland, medicinal food designed to support… a pregnancy. It wasn’t just my leg that was broken. My body, my autonomy, my very being had been stolen.
I wasn’t just recovering from an accident. I was recovering from an unspeakable violation. They hadn’t just trapped me in my room. They had trapped me in my own body, turning me into an unwitting vessel, a walking, breathing incubator.
Earphones | Source: Pexels
I looked down at my abdomen, where a faint, barely perceptible curve was just beginning to form. My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a sob. This wasn’t a miracle. This was an abomination.
I WAS PREGNANT. And I hadn’t consented to a single moment of it. My husband, my mother-in-law, the people I thought loved me, had done this to me. And now, as my husband’s footsteps approached the door, I knew with chilling certainty: I was carrying their secret, and a baby I never chose, a baby that tied me to my captors forever. My scream died in my throat, swallowed by the terror and the crushing weight of betrayal.
