Daryl Carson and Jennie Gilbert’s daughter had a rare blood coagulation disorder.
Because the three of them went to Disneyland and she accidentally got hit on the head by a car,
Daryl took my twin sons to the operating room and drained 1000cc of their blood.
I fell to my knees and begged him desperately:
“The children are so young, they can’t possibly handle that much blood loss. Please spare them. I’ll give every drop of my own blood to save her...”
Daryl held Jennie by the waist and looked at me with cold impatience.
“It’s just a transfusion, not their lives. Overprotective mothers ruin children. Let Jennie raise them from now on. You’re unfit to be a mother.”
The moment Jennie’s daughter came out of surgery, Daryl summoned every doctor to her side.
That night, my sons died from excessive blood loss, but Daryl lit fireworks in celebration of Jennie and her daughter’s survival.
Clutching my sons’ bloodied bodies, I went to Carson's mother: “Auntie, please let me go. You raised me, you know me. Without my children, I can’t stay in this family anymore.”
——
...I rushed into the emergency room, carrying the lifeless bodies of my sons, and dropped to my knees, begging the doctors for help.
The doctor hurriedly pulled me up, stared at me, then asked in disbelief, “How could you be their mother? They’ve lost so much blood, and you’re only coming now? Do you even care?”
The pain in his words shattered me. I broke down, sobbing. “I’m sorry—it’s all my fault. I should have donated blood, not them. Please, save them…”
The doctor’s face turned grim. “They died from blood loss. If they’d arrived just an hour earlier, we might have saved them.”
I bit my lip hard, my nails digging into my palms.
Right as Jennie’s daughter came out of surgery, Daryl called all the doctors to her side, ignoring our son, unconscious from blood loss.
I called Daryl, begging him to send a doctor. He scolded me instead.
“You’re panicking over a little blood? The child’s just spoiled. Keri’s condition is unstable—don’t create more trouble!”
Then he hung up. When I called again, no one picked up.
I rushed to the garage to drive the boys to the hospital, but both cars were gone.
Jennie had sent the drivers to buy snowflake crisps from the north and fried yogurt from the south—Keri’s cravings after waking up.
I carried my children down the mountain on foot for ten kilometers. My feet were torn, my heart breaking.
But I was still too late.
The boys who called me “Mom” that morning lay silent in my arms. I wiped the blood from their faces and knelt before the doctor.
“My sons aren’t dead yet. Please try again, please save them…”
People passed through the hospital halls, pausing at the sight of my bloodied, purple-faced children.
Then a deliveryman appeared, holding a Chanel bag and two boxes of fried yogurt.
He read a message from his phone out loud to me.
“Keri’s bleeding has stopped. You and your kids did well. These clothes and snacks are your reward. Go home, replenish their blood, and prepare for the spinal cord extraction.”
His tone was light and careless—not how a husband should speak to his wife and children.
Those nearby began to whisper in outrage.
“Look at those needle marks on the kid’s arms… is she selling their blood?”
“She sounds like a mistress—bringing her kids to sell blood to some rich man. Shameless!”
