My Baby Kicks Hard Yet They Claim Empty Womb

Maren's POV

I snapped photos of pale yellow baby clothes I’d bought at Target, posted them on Instagram captioned “Juno's wardrobe.”

Right after I put my phone away, my mother-in-law Genevieve called and berated me. She claimed I’d lost my mind after our stillbirth, insisted I wasn’t pregnant, and demanded I delete the post.

As soon as we hung up, my water broke.

Six hours later, I woke up worn out on a hospital delivery bed at Devereux Memorial Hospital. No baby cried anywhere.

My husband Elias sat beside me with bloodshot eyes. He pulled a lifelike silicone fake pregnancy belly out and set it on my lap, begging me to accept I wasn’t actually carrying a child. I screamed that I’d given birth and demanded to know where my baby Juno was.

Dr. Beckett and a team of doctors walked in, diagnosing me with pseudocyesis—phantom pregnancy. They said I’d only worn a silicone pad to fake a belly. My parents stood nearby, staring at me with shameful pity.

They forced me onto a psychiatric ambulance. I was locked in a windowless ward, drugged nonstop, tormented by the loss of my daughter, until every ounce of my will faded away…

I gasped sharply, pulling in a ragged breath.

Inside my belly, Juno gave a violent roll.

I was reborn. Just days before my due date.

This was a real, living being. I pressed my hand against the tremor of her kick, letting the vibration travel from my palm straight to my bones: Real.

Yet every scene from my past life was still burned into my brain—Genevieve, Elias, that pack of doctors. Why did they collude to weave such a ridiculous lie? For what?

I stopped thinking, pulled out yesterday's ultrasound report, took a picture, and sent it to my mother, Rosalind.

"Mom, Juno's latest ultrasound. I'm giving birth next week."

The reply came faster than I expected.

"Maren, please, stop playing these games. You're only breaking your father's heart. Wake up, okay?"

I froze in place.

In my past life, Conrad and Rosalind were abroad and didn't rush back until the day of my delivery.

But now, with days still left until my due date, they had already aligned their stories.

My phone buzzed again. Genevieve.

"Maren, we are all very eager for a grandchild," her tone softened this time, feigned mercy wrapping around every word, "but these things have to happen naturally. You can't just conjure up a child out of thin air to trick everyone because you're in too much pain. See a psychiatrist. Stop torturing Elias."

I hung up.

My parents, my in-laws, even the hospital—they had plotted this in advance, just waiting for me to step inside so they could trap me to death.

But there was one person who was different.

Sloane. My biological sister. The current administrative director of Devereux Memorial Hospital. If the medical records had been tampered with, my ever-rational and calm sister couldn't possibly be unaware.

I abandoned my shopping cart, rushed out of the maternity store, floored the gas pedal to the hospital, ignored the secretary's gasps, and shoved open the mahogany double doors to the director's office.

"Sloane, you have to help me!" I rushed to her desk, grabbed her hand without explanation, and pressed it against my pregnant belly. "Do you feel that? Juno is moving. Log into the system with me right now and pull up my real medical records—"

Sloane didn't pull her hand away.

She simply leaned back in her chair, her gaze passing over my shoulder into the distance. Juno kicked again, the force transmitting clearly through the silk fabric into her palm. After exactly five seconds of silence, she raised her eyes, a highly professional, profoundly pitying smile surfacing on her face.

"Maren, sit down."

"I won't sit—I want you to take me to the ultrasound room—"

"You are not pregnant."

She cut me off, her voice calm, absolute, leaving no room for argument.

"Ever since you lost that child two years ago, you've been living in a delusion. You've fooled everyone, even yourself." Sloane walked around the desk, her heels silent on the carpet, looking down at me. "This is a top-tier hospital. Medical data doesn't lie."

"She just kicked you!" I gripped her wrist tightly. "You clearly felt it in your hand!"

"I felt absolutely nothing."

Sloane shook my hand off.

I stumbled back a step, my back hitting the cold wall.

Looking down, Juno was distinctly kicking against my ribs, strong, vigorous, irrefutably real.

But the face in front of me—my own sister, who looked so much like me—was quietly pulling this web tight alongside Genevieve, my parents, and that row of white coats.

With the voice of the entire world, they declared in unison:

My child simply did not exist.