For his mother to see her grandson one last time before she died, my husband made me give birth early, even though I was only 34 weeks along. I refused again and again, explaining that premature birth was dangerous for the baby, but he only stared at me coldly. Later, his wish came true: his mother saw her grandson, whose development had been impaired by the premature birth, and me, sitting there in a daze. But the first thing my husband did after his mother died was divorce me. I jumped from a high-rise, clutching our child. When I opened my eyes again, my husband was clutching his belly in terror, and I had become him.
