"That’s not going to work. It’s not your child, so of course, you don’t feel sorry for him!"
I knew full well that she and my aunt had no good intentions, so I turned to my mother for help instead.
She had worked as a nurse at the county hospital when she was younger—she had to have their contact information.
"Mom, you have the number for the county hospital! Call them and ask them to send an ambulance!"
My mother’s gaze lingered on the blood staining my clothes. For half a minute, she said nothing. Then, at last, she pulled out her phone.
I breathed a sigh of relief. My daughter would finally be saved.
But before she could dial, a hand suddenly reached out and snatched the phone from her grasp.
It was my aunt.
A sinking feeling crept over me.
She switched off the screen and waved her hand dismissively.
"Sister, I’m not trying to be difficult, but calling emergency services on Memorial Day? Really?"
She shot me a scornful glare, while I stood there, trembling from sheer anxiety.
"Besides, we have a pregnant woman in the house. If hospital staff come here, what if the spirits of the dead and injured bring bad luck and harm the baby?"
The room fell eerily silent. No one dared to move, their faces clouded with unease.
My aunt smirked, satisfied, just like every other time she manipulated my mother under the guise of doing something "for my own good."
She had already caused me so much pain.
Was she going to hurt my daughter too?
No. Absolutely not.
Before she could react, I lunged forward and snatched the phone from her hand. I dialed the county hospital, ignoring the insults she spat at me.
