Just one day before giving birth, my husband used the $23,000 I’d saved for delivery to pay off his sister’s debt. “She’ll die without it—just take something to delay the birth,” he said, then walked out while I went into labor. With my last strength, I called my mother. He had no idea that call would send his life into a downward spiral.

“I can’t deal with this right now, Elena,” Mark commanded, his voice utterly callous and devoid of any human empathy. “Just take an aspirin or something to delay the birth. I have to go to the city to calm Chloe down and make sure the transfer cleared. Call a cab if you really need to go to the hospital.”

He turned his back on me.

“Mark, please!” I screamed, reaching a trembling, wet hand out toward him.

He didn’t look back. He walked down the hallway, the sound of his expensive leather shoes echoing on the hardwood floor. The heavy oak front door opened, and then slammed shut with a sickening, definitive thud.

I was alone. In a pool of amniotic fluid. Going into complicated, high-risk labor.

But as the agonizing pain of a second, brutal contraction tore through my body, forcing me to curl into a tight, shivering ball on the nursery floor, I didn’t reach for a towel. I didn’t succumb to the panic. The terrified, accommodating wife completely, permanently died in that room.