Amy woke before dawn. Her eyes burned from exhaustion, but sleep had been impossible anyway. Her mind had been racing since the confrontation with Amara. Every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the venomous words about her children, the sneers, the mocking laughter. But beneath the fear and exhaustion was a new fire.
She would not let anyone—Amara, Onyinye, Joy, or even Mama—insult or endanger her twins.
So, while the house was still silent, she dressed quietly and packed the twins' things. She wrapped them in soft sweaters and guided them out into the early morning air. Not a single in-law stirred to question her. For the first time in a long while, she felt relief stepping past the gate.
By 7:30 a.m., she was already at the hospital. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to the walls and floors, and the faint cries of children echoed from far-off rooms. She held her twins' hands tightly as they walked toward the pediatric ward.
Doctor Ife, a tall, calm man with kind eyes, greeted them warmly and ushered them into his office.
After a brief checkup, he leaned forward, his brows furrowed.
"Mrs. Bem," he said carefully, "the children's condition doesn't look so good. I'll need to admit them for observation and run a series of tests. I'll also need you to pay the admittance fee before we proceed."
Amy felt her heart drop. Her stomach twisted painfully, but she forced a nod.
"Do whatever you must, doctor. Please. I'll make the payments right away."
She hurried to the reception, fumbling with her phone to transfer money. Just as she was about to pay, her phone began to ring. The screen flashed Mama.
Amy hesitated, her hand trembling. She didn't want to answer. Not now. Not here. But ignoring Mama often brought worse consequences later. With a deep breath, she slid her thumb across the screen.
"Good morning, Mama," she said softly.
"Eh, good morning, my child," Mama replied, her voice already sharp. "Where did you go? No one has seen you since morning! There's no breakfast on the table. How can you leave your family starving?"
Amy's eyes burned with frustration. She glanced at the receptionist waiting for her and tightened her grip on the phone.
"Mama, I'm… busy right now. You will all have to manage breakfast yourselves today. I have to go."
"But my child, how can—"
Amy hung up before the words could pierce her deeper. Her hands shook as she shoved the phone into her bag. She really didn't have the strength to deal with them.
She returned to the children's ward. Her twins lay side by side in the small hospital bed, their little chests rising and falling with shallow breaths. Amy sat between them, holding both of their hands, whispering prayers under her breath.
She thought about calling her husband, but the words tangled in her throat. What would she say? That the children were sick? That she didn't know what was wrong with them. Also, could she say that his family did not care about them and instead ate the last food in the house while she and the children starved?
And would he even pick up?
Her phone buzzed again. Dozens of messages from her in-laws lit up the screen. Accusations. Insults. Demands. They came in barrages.
'You fat bastard! Where did you run off to?'
'How dare you leave your family to starve, and you are busy enjoying your life out there?'
'You will still come back to this house. No man or woman would take you in looking like that. At the end of the day, you will still come back to us.'
'Did you win the lottery and run off without giving us our share? You'd better turn on your phone and call us now else everyone will know what a heartless, stupid, fat idiot you are.'
'There's no food or anything in the house. Aren't you coming back to cook and take care of the house? What sort of wife runs, leaving her in-laws to fend for themselves!'
'Hey! You fat bastard! Aren't you coming back? Did you really run away? No man wants a second-hand, especially one that looks like a buffalo. You'd better come back to us, who are managing you and helping your life!' 'You have really grown wings! Everything you have right now is ours. Without us, you have nothing. Carry your pig self back here!'
The words struck like poison, each one a ruthless stab at her self-worth. They didn't just insult her—they orchestrated a campaign of cruelty. Pictures of pigs, cows, and buffalo flooded her social media inbox, her face grotesquely photoshopped onto their bodies. Memes. GIFs. Tags in every vicious post, as if her torment were some kind of public sport.
But nothing could have prepared her for the discovery that followed.
A public social media account—thousands of followers—built for one purpose only: her humiliation. It was all there, laid bare for strangers to consume. Heavily edited pictures. Stolen videos of her most private moments—sleeping, eating, even showering all filmed without her consent. The comments were worse than the images, a cesspool of mockery. They called her a pig, a cow, a monster. They went further, dragging her children into the cruelty, calling them "runts," "imbeciles," "autistic."
Amy turned the phone off. She refused to let their poison reach her in this place. Not while her children needed her strength.
The next three days blurred together.
Nurses came in and out, drawing blood, collecting samples, checking vitals. Each time, Amy's heart clenched at her children's whimpers. She refused to leave their sides, not even for a moment. She slept in the chair by their bed, ate nothing, changed nothing. The same clothes clung to her body, stained and crumpled.
"Mrs. Bem," one nurse pleaded on the second day, "please, you need to rest. Go home. Change. Bring fresh clothes for the children."
"I can't," Amy whispered, shaking her head. "What if something happens when I'm not here? What if they need me?"
The Nurse resignedly and walked off. On the third evening, Doctor Ife entered the ward. Amy had drifted into an exhausted half-sleep, her head lolling forward. A soft snore escaped her lips.
The doctor hesitated. He hated to disturb her, but he had seen mothers like this before—burnt out, clinging on by sheer will. If she collapsed, she would be no use to her children.
"Mrs. Bem," he said gently, shaking her shoulder.
She stirred, confused, then blinked herself awake. Realizing where she was, she tried to stand too quickly. Her body betrayed her—her legs buckled, and she fell heavily onto the plastic chair, which cracked under her weight and collapsed to the floor.
"Ah!" Amy gasped, her cheeks burning red as she scrambled, humiliated.
Doctor Ife rushed to help her up, steadying her with a firm grip.
"This," he said calmly, "is why I've been asking you to rest. Look at yourself, Mrs. Bem. You are exhausted."
Amy managed a weak smile, embarrassed.
"Doctor, please, let me stay. I'll be fine—"
"No," he interrupted firmly, though his tone was kind. "We have skilled nurses and doctors. Your children are safe with us. What they need now is a mother who is rested and strong. Not one who collapses from fatigue."
Amy opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor raised a hand.
"Listen to me. You must go home tonight. Take a bath. Change your clothes. Cook a proper meal and bring fresh clothes for the children. That's how you can help them now."
She swallowed hard. "Doctor, are the results out? Can't I just stay one more night, then tomorrow—"
"No," he cut in, his voice firm. "If you stay, you'll only worsen things. Do you want to aggravate their condition by exposing them to germs from your unwashed clothes?"
Amy's lips trembled. She hated the thought of leaving. But something in his voice—the authority, the care—forced her to relent.
"Okay," she whispered. "Please… take care of them. I'll be back first thing tomorrow."
Doctor Ife smiled softly. "Good. And don't rush. Your children need you strong, not sick. Go."
The house was eerily quiet when Amy returned late that night. She braced herself for an ambush—shouts, insults, maybe even blows. But nothing. Only silence.
Confused, she stepped inside. The stench hit her immediately. The kitchen was overflowing with dirty dishes, the bin reeked, and the fridge was bare. Every pot she had filled with food was scraped clean. Even the twins' food was gone.
Her chest tightened with rage and despair. She pulled on gloves and began cleaning, her stomach growling painfully from hunger. 'Did she live with humans or animals?' she thought to herself because she truly couldn't differentiate right now. But what could she do? the whole house stank so bad, and no amount of exhaustion would let her leave her house in this state. Hours passed as she scrubbed the kitchen, then the living room, then the bedrooms. When she reached the master bedroom, her knees buckled.
The sheets were slashed, her clothes torn and scattered, the wardrobes wrecked. The sacred space of her marriage, desecrated.
She fell to her knees, shaking. Tears burned her eyes. Enough. Enough. definitely crossed too many lines. It was glaring!.
By the time she finished cleaning what she could salvage, it was 3 a.m. Her stomach cramped with hunger, but the house was empty of food. Even the foodstuffs were gone. She curled into a fetal position on the bed, her body shaking.
Finally, she turned on her phone. Over fifty missed calls. More than a hundred messages.
"You fat bastard! you have the nerve to ignore us?"
"How dare you abandon your family?!"
"You will crawl back. You are useless!"
"Maybe you think we wouldn't dare tell your husband the Nonsense you pull in this house? How do you think he'll feel learning about your stupidity?"
"You pig! You think you're better than us?!"
The insults went on endlessly. More Pictures of her and her kids in their intimate moments were heavily edited and sent to her.
Amy's breath caught in her throat. She dropped the phone as if it burned her. Cameras. They had planted cameras in her bedroom. Even in the bathroom. Her privacy stolen, her children exposed.
She broke. Tears poured freely as she curled on the floor, sobbing until exhaustion dragged her into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Amy woke with renewed resolve. Her first task was searching the house. She found two hidden cameras—one by the laundry basket, another above the shower. Fury coursed through her veins as she yanked them down and smashed them.
Within an hour, she was packed. Clothes, documents, the children's essentials. She grabbed her keys and drove straight back to the hospital.
Relief washed over her when she found the twins in the pediatric wing, laughing with other children. Their genuine joy was fragile but real, something she hadn't seen at home. She hugged them tightly, whispering promises into their ears.
Then, with a heavy heart, she made her way to Doctor Ife's office.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bem. Please, sit."
Her legs trembled as she lowered herself onto the chair.
"Doctor," she said, her voice barely steady, "are the results out?"
He nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "Yes. And I need you to prepare yourself."
Amy's chest tightened.
"The tests confirm your children are suffering from autoimmune hepatitis. It's a chronic illness where the immune system mistakenly attacks the liver cells, causing damage and inflammation. There is no cure—but with treatment, it can be managed."
Her lips quivered. "D-doctor… is it fatal?"
"Not if we treat it," he assured her quickly. "But untreated, it can be life-threatening."
She gasped, her whole body shaking. "So… so they can live?"
"Yes. But we must act fast. We've already taken biopsies to determine if there is any damage to their liver."
Amy's eyes filled with tears. "And… what if… what if it's too late?"
Doctor Ife hesitated, then said, "If the liver is too damaged, then depending on how bad it is, they may need transplants."
"I'll do it," Amy blurted. "Take my liver. Take whatever you need. I'll give it all."
The doctor looked startled. "It's not that simple, Mrs. Bem. We'd need to test you to see if you're a match and if you're healthy enough to donate. And even then, you can only donate part of your liver to one child. We would still need another donor for the other, just in case."
Amy's heart sank, but she nodded fiercely. "Then test me."
Doctor Ife gave her a long, steady look, then sighed. "Very well. But first, let's wait for the biopsy results."
At that moment, a nurse burst into the office, breathless.
"Doctor, the biopsy results are back."
Amy froze. Her knees felt weak.
Doctor Ife flipped through the file, his expression tightening.
"Doctor," Amy whispered, trembling violently, "what does it say? What's wrong?"
He closed the file slowly, then looked at her.
"Mrs. Bem," he said gravely, "your daughter Jessi's liver is severely damaged. Jayden's condition is better, but Jessi's is critical. We must start medication immediately and place her on the transplant list."
The room spun around her. Amy clutched her chest, her breaths shallow.
"My baby…" she whispered, tears streaming. "Oh God… my baby."