My mother-in-law poured hot soup on me when I said I had severe stomach pain and needed to go to the hospital: “Stop pretending, no one’s going to cook dinner for you.”
But just at that moment, my husband walked into the kitchen, and what happened next left me in shock.
By the seventh month of pregnancy, I already knew well what ordinary discomfort felt like and what was real cause for alarm. And that day, it was definitely not normal.
In the morning, a dull pain appeared in my lower back. At first it was mild, but by lunchtime it had grown stronger. By evening, I could barely stand up straight. I leaned against the kitchen counter, holding onto the sink with one hand and my belly with the other.
“I don’t feel well,” I said, trying not to panic. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
My mother-in-law didn’t even turn around from the stove.
“You’re not going anywhere until dinner is ready,” she replied dryly. “Stop making things up. You young people are all the same. A little twinge and it’s suddenly a tragedy.”
Another wave of pain made me double over.
“Please,” I whispered. “Something’s wrong… I’m scared for the baby. I just want to get checked.”
She turned around sharply.
“You sat around all day while I cooked,” she said irritably. “The least you can do is help. Your generation always dramatizes everything.”
I tried to take a step toward the door.
“I’m not making it up,” I said, feeling tears welling up. “I’m really scared.”
As I reached for the door, my mother-in-law abruptly grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she hissed. “You’re not going to shame us at the hospital because of your whims.”
At that moment, the pain hit me with renewed force. My vision went dark, my legs grew weak.
“I’m going anyway,” I said, barely able to control my voice. “I have to.”
Then everything happened too fast.
My mother-in-law snapped. She grabbed the pot from the stove — and the hot soup flew straight at me.
The burning liquid poured over my belly and chest. For a second, I couldn’t even breathe. Then the pain came — searing, unbearable.
I screamed. My legs gave way, and I fell onto the cold kitchen tiles, clutching my hands to my belly.
I lay on the floor, thinking only one thing: “Please… please let the baby be okay.”
And just at that moment, my husband walked into the kitchen. Then came what I least expected. You can find the continuation in the first comment.
He saw me on the floor. Saw the stains on my clothes. Saw the empty pot in his mother’s hands.
“What did you do?” he asked quietly.
My mother-in-law tried to say something, but he was already rushing to me. He carefully lifted me up and held me close.
“It’s okay, we’re going. Right now.”
At the hospital, they admitted me immediately. Doctors rushed around, asking questions, hooking up machines.
After some time, a doctor came out to my husband.
“You were very lucky,” he said seriously. “A little longer, and we might not have made it in time.”
He paused, then added:
“Your wife might not have survived. And neither would the baby.”
A few days later, after I had been moved to a regular ward, my husband said:
“I filed a report.”
I looked at him.
“Against my mother. For causing harm to a pregnant woman.”
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.
A couple more days later, my mother-in-law came to the hospital.
She looked older. Her hands were trembling, her eyes were red.
“I didn’t mean it,” she said from the doorway. “I really thought you were pretending… That you just didn’t want to help around the house… I didn’t think it was so serious…”
She sank onto a chair and started crying.
“Please… Tell him to drop the charges. I’m his child’s grandmother. I realize everything now. I’ll never…”
I looked at her and said nothing. And I don’t know what to do now.
