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.

The two on the cot beside me went dead silent the moment they heard my voice.

Brendan turned. When his eyes met my icy stare, a flicker of discomfort crossed his face—but he recovered fast.

"Naomi… you're awake?"

"Are you feeling okay? Do you want some water?"

His expression smoothed into perfect composure as he poured a glass and brought it to my lips.

I said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward and let the water wet my cracked lips.

"So. Are you going to explain? The video."

His hand froze.

I looked past him. On Charity's phone screen, still glowing bright, was footage of me—writhing, screaming, giving birth.

She caught my gaze. Her smile stretched wider.

"Hey, sis," she chirped.

Then her finger accidentally grazed the volume button.

My own voice—raw, guttural, shattered with pain—exploded through the hospital room.

My whole body locked up.

In the bassinet beside me, my newborn startled awake. Her tiny mouth opened, and a thin, reedy cry spilled out.

That sound. It was like a thousand needles driving straight into my chest.

I forced myself upright, reaching for her with trembling hands to soothe her, then whipped my head back toward them.

"Turn it off. Delete it. Now."

Charity pouted and glanced at Brendan.

"It was an accident."

"See, I told you she'd throw a fit."

Brendan frowned. He set the glass down, sat on the edge of my bed, and his voice came out clipped with irritation.

"Babies cry. It's healthy. Is this really necessary?"

My hand stilled on my daughter's back.

Something cold clicked into place in my mind.

"When she came out of the delivery room," I said, my voice flat, empty of anything, "who held her first?"

Brendan blinked.

He hadn't expected me to go there. I watched the memory surface—our promise, the one he'd made—and guilt flickered across his face before he could hide it.

Three years dating. Five years married.

I knew that look.

I'd thought he was just a disappointing husband. Now I realized he'd failed as a father too.

Maybe the contempt in my eyes was too obvious. He knew he was in the wrong, but he still fumbled for an excuse.

"I was… busy when she first came out. I held her later."

"Busy?"

I stared at him. Then at Charity, poised beside him like a guard dog ready to leap to his defense.

My voice dropped, edged with something cold and mocking.

"Busy showing her footage of me at my most vulnerable. Too busy to hold your own daughter."

"Brendan. Who gave you permission to send her that video?"

The room went so quiet I could hear the fluorescent lights humming.

Brendan pressed his lips together, visibly calculating his next words.

But Charity—watching him flounder—let out an impatient little huff.

"I asked him to film it for me, sis."

She met my gaze and lifted her chin, defiant.

"I was bored. Curious what it looks like when a woman gives birth." She shrugged. "So he recorded it. We're practically family. You're not really going to throw a tantrum over something this small, are you?"

I turned to Brendan.

He didn't contradict a single word.

The last trace of warmth drained from my face.

"Curious…"

I rolled the word around slowly, tasting its shape.

"Then why don't you find someone to knock you up and try it yourself?"

My voice was quiet. Almost conversational.

But the smug look on Charity's face cracked like dry earth.

"That's enough, Naomi. You've gone too far."

Brendan's voice cut in, low and hard. His eyes held nothing but disapproval—

For me.

I watched him in silence.

Just as he turned to comfort Charity, I spoke again.

"Oh, I almost forgot."

"You'd love to have a child of your own, wouldn't you? Too bad the father wasn't interested."

Everyone who knew Charity knew exactly what she'd done back then.

The moment the words left my mouth, two sounds rang out simultaneously.

"Naomi!"

Slap!

Charity stood before me, her raised hand striking down again.

I'd just given birth. I had no strength left to fight back—I took both blows full-force.

When I tried to dodge, the movement tore at my stitches. Waves of searing pain ripped through my lower abdomen.

Charity looked down at me, her voice dripping with acid and contempt.

"I only slapped you twice out of respect for Brendan. Sister-in-law, I suggest you remember this lesson."

My face had gone chalk-white. Through the agony, I turned to look at Brendan, who stood beside her without lifting a finger.

He'd been right next to Charity the whole time. Close enough to stop her.

Unless he never intended to.

Sure enough, after a brief moment of eye contact, Brendan's gaze drifted away, unbothered.

"Charity was right to hit you."

"You went too far, Naomi."

My heart plummeted.

Too far?

Compared to what he and Charity had said while I lay unconscious and vulnerable—this didn't even come close to a fraction of it.

I remembered drifting in and out of sleep, hearing Brendan discuss my most private moments with an outsider. That careless, dismissive tone.

And my daughter—the child I'd nearly died bringing into this world—when she cried, he hadn't even glanced her way.

His claim that he'd held her later? I didn't believe a single word.

"Brendan, I asked you a question. Answer me."

"Sister-in-law, don't be so dramatic." Charity crossed her arms, her face full of disdain. "You ballooned into that mess during your pregnancy, and Brendan never said a word about it. So what if he let us watch your delivery video?"

"Stop acting like Brendan owes you something. Who are you playing victim for?"

I froze.

"Us?"

"What do you mean, us? Brendan—explain yourself. Who else did you send that video to?"

A terrible suspicion was already forming.

And Charity, seeing my expression, couldn't hold back her laughter.

She waved her phone at me. On the screen was a group chat—flooded with screenshots taken from my delivery video, turned into mocking memes.

Mixed in were crude jokes. Vulgar comments. People laughing at my expense.

"One second her face is all twisted up, the next her eyes are rolling back—and she's so red and sweaty. Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd never guess this was childbirth, haha."

"Leave it to Brendan to kick off the new year with entertainment like this. Think the missus will run away from home when she finds out?"

"Who cares..."

I closed my eyes, unable to stomach another word. The rage made my wound throb.

"Brendan. Are you still not going to explain?"

I'd assumed he'd simply shown the video to Charity.

I never imagined he'd screenshot the worst moments, turn them into animated memes, and share both the video and the images in the cash-gift group chat he used with his friends.

Over a hundred people in that group. Most of them strangers, maybe—but his close friends knew exactly who I was.

And right now, they were having the time of their lives discussing it.

Brendan frowned, clearly irritated by my confrontational tone.

He studied me from above for a long moment, as if finally deciding he was done pretending. Then he spread his hands, his expression utterly indifferent.

"There's nothing to explain. I was just having some fun."