I never revealed my real profession to my mother-in-law. In her eyes, I was nothing more than the “unemployed wife” living off her son’s success.
Just hours after my C-section, while anesthesia still dulled my body and my newborn twins rested against my chest, she barged into my private hospital suite holding a thick stack of papers.
“Sign these immediately,” she ordered. “You don’t deserve to live like this. And you’re certainly not capable of raising two babies.”
The recovery suite at St. Mary’s Medical Pavilion resembled a luxury hotel more than a medical facility. At my request, the nurses had quietly removed the extravagant floral displays sent by colleagues from the Attorney General’s Office and several federal associates. I had worked hard to maintain the illusion of being a simple work-from-home freelancer around my husband’s family. It was safer that way.
Beside me, my twins—Noah and Nora—slept peacefully. The emergency surgery had been agonizing, but holding them erased every ounce of pain.
Then the door slammed open.
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