I had a C-section.
My husband's female "bro" said she was bored—so he filmed my entire labor. Every humiliating, undignified moment of me giving birth, captured on camera. Then he took screenshots, turned them into animated memes, and uploaded them to their group chat for anyone to download and use.
Charity Pruitt saw them and doubled over laughing.
"Brendan, this is the best laugh I've had all year. You always know how to cheer me up."
"Though... Naomi Harding's gonna be pissed when she wakes up and sees these."
My eyelids were heavy as I lay on the hospital bed, barely conscious—but I heard Brendan Henson's dismissive reply clear as day:
"Let her be pissed. She already had the baby. What's she gonna do about it?"
"Honestly? Sometimes she really gets on my nerves. Can't even take a little joke."
A little joke?
My hand twitched beneath the blanket. My mind drifted to the files buried on my computer—years of grievances I'd never bothered to tally.
——
Shrill laughter ricocheted off the hospital room walls.
Charity scrolled through the group chat, jabbing her finger at one of the memes, shaking with glee.
"Brendan, look at her. She's hideous."
"Her whole face is so red and bloated—she looks like a sow in labor. No offense, but it's honestly kind of nauseating."
Brendan arched an eyebrow but didn't stop what he was doing. His thumbs kept moving, sending freshly made mocking stickers into the chat.
"Now you know what I sacrificed to get you a laugh."
"You and the guys only have to look through a screen. I was right there in the delivery room, front-row seat. If I weren't thinking about how funny you'd find this, I would've run out and puked."
His disgusted tone sent Charity into another fit of giggles.
I lay frozen on the bed. Ice crawled from the soles of my feet and spread through my entire body. My chest felt like it had been ripped open by invisible hands—cold air rushing in, raw and searing.
Two hours ago, my water broke. They wheeled me into the delivery room.
Brendan—who'd promised to wait outside and be the first to hold our baby—was frantic with worry. He insisted on coming in with me, no matter what anyone said.
We'd been married five years. Stable. Solid. People always say childbirth reveals whether the person beside you is human or monster.
When I saw his eyes rimmed red with anxiety, I'd felt a surge of relief.
Thank God I didn't choose wrong.
But once I was inside that room, the pain tore through me like I was being split in two. Veins bulged across my forehead and neck.
And Brendan? He stood off to the side. Indifferent. His only focus was holding up his phone, recording my face as it contorted in agony.
He'd called it "documenting the birth of our first child."
Then the baby shifted wrong. The doctor recommended an emergency C-section and asked him to stay a moment longer—just to talk to me, calm me down.
He didn't even look back. Just pocketed his phone and walked out.
"Brendan, look at this part—doesn't she look exactly like that porn star from the video we watched? The facial expression is identical. If you didn't know better, you'd think Naomi was—"
Charity rewound the video on her phone and cranked up the volume, replaying it.
I forced my eyes open. Stiff. Unblinking.
I saw Brendan lean in toward her screen. The mockery in their eyes was a perfect match.
"She... looks way worse than any porn star right now. And her body's nowhere near as hot..."
He delivered his verdict with casual boredom. Then, as if worried Charity might not believe him, he rattled off my measurements from late pregnancy for comparison.
"That actress? 34-23-34. Naomi? The only thing that comes close is her hips—and only because she's pregnant."
The words landed.
Their jeering laughter tangled together.
It stabbed into my eardrums like needles.
Beneath the blanket, my fingers curled weakly into the sheet, leaving a single crease in the fabric.
"Brendan Henson."
My voice came out hoarse. Scraped raw. Drained of everything.
