My mother was nine months pregnant and still working twelve-hour shifts at a warehouse because our family was living paycheck to paycheck. Every dollar mattered, and missing work simply wasn’t an option.
One afternoon, she felt a sharp pain unlike anything she had experienced before. Worried, she approached her supervisor and quietly explained that something felt wrong and she needed medical attention.
He barely looked up.
Instead of helping, he told her that if she left before the truck was loaded, she would be considered to have quit. With rent due and bills piling up, she felt trapped.
So she stayed.
For two more hours, she pushed through the pain, lifting boxes and forcing herself to keep moving. Every step hurt, but she kept thinking about providing for her family, finishing the nursery, and making it to the next paycheck.
Eventually, her body gave out.
She collapsed at work and, realizing no one was going to make the decision for her, called an Uber to take herself to the emergency room.
By the time doctors examined her, it was too late.
She lost the baby.
I still remember the silence of that hospital room. The walls were bright white, but everything felt dark. My mother sat motionless, staring into the distance, unable to process what had happened.
In one devastating day, a family lost a child—not because she ignored the warning signs, but because fear of losing her job forced her to choose work over her health.
