They Killed My Baby, Now They Beg Me to Save Theirs

Twenty years ago, I bled out on a delivery table while my husband signed away my last unit of blood to my sister for a scratched knee. My baby died; my family moved on. Now, I am the top surgeon in the country, and their daughter is the one hemorrhaging on the table. They’ve come back with blank checks and hollow apologies, begging me to play God. But I still remember the cold physics of that delivery room. Some debts are written in blood, and I’m finally here to collect.