The woman, trembling with labor pain, called her husband.

He, lying beside his lover with one arm draped around her and his phone against his ear, answered coldly: “If the baby’s a girl, I’m not raising her. I won’t bring another burden into my house. Go stay with your parents.” Then he ended the call.

The next day, when he returned home, the life he thought he owned was no longer his.

That night, relentless rain pounded the rooftops of Seattle. Strong winds rattled the windows of the old brick buildings in Capitol Hill, and on the fourth floor of a narrow apartment building, Emily bent forward in pain, one hand clutching her swollen belly as another contraction gripped her body.

She struggled to breathe. Her phone sat on the kitchen counter. With shaking hands, she dialed her husband’s number.

“Jason… Jason, it’s happening. The contractions are closer now. Please come. I’m scared…”

There was silence for a moment. Then his voice came through, flat and annoyed.

“You can’t be serious. I already told you—if it’s another girl, don’t expect me to stay. I’m not raising a second disappointment.”

“You’re saying that while your child is being born?” Emily cried, her voice breaking.

“I’m busy. Handle it yourself.”

The call ended.