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Four months pregnant, I was floating on cloud nine. My husband, David, held my hand as we walked into Dr. Peterson' s office. Today was the day for our baby' s genetic screening results – a joyful formality, we thought, confirming our perfect future. But the moment David scanned the detailed report, his happy face shattered. It drained of color, twisting into a mask of pure terror and bitter revulsion. "You need to have an abortion," he choked out, his voice utterly unrecognizable, fixed on the sterile pages. My own parents arrived, their expressions mirroring David' s grotesque horror. Without explanation, they drugged me, dragged me to a remote cabin, and forced a "medically induced miscarriage." I awoke weeks later in a high-end mental institution, labeled hysterical, my baby gone, my spirit utterly crushed. I had died there, surrounded by silence and indifference. What unspeakable secret was on that paper? What could turn my loving husband and doting parents into monsters who condemned me and my unborn child with such shocking cruelty? The betrayal was a wound deeper than any physical pain, leaving me with a burning, desperate question. Then, I gasped awake, clutching my pregnant belly. It hadn't happened yet. It was a premonition, a horrific, vivid nightmare. This time, I wouldn't be a passive victim. This time, I would get that report first. And this time, I would fight like hell.