STORY: Overloaded Womb

She’s half-reclining on the bed, propped up by a pile of pillows. The phone is held out at arm’s length, recording. Soft light from the window spills across the enormous, taut dome of her belly where the dark linea nigra runs perfectly straight down the center like someone drew it with a thick marker.

“Hey, baby…” she begins quietly, a faint smile flickering, though her voice trembles with strain. “Look what they’ve done to me. Seriously. I don’t fit into a single piece of clothing anymore. Not one. This shirt… it’s not even a shirt now, just some rag I threw on top. And down below… well, you can see.”

The camera slowly pans downward. The belly rises like a perfect, enormous sphere. The skin shines from the sheer tension; it looks as though one more breath might be too much.

“I’m so stretched… it feels like three people are fighting for space inside me. Even though the scan said two. Lately I’m not so sure anymore. They keep kicking, shoving, like they’re taunting me. ‘Come on, Mom, come on, push us out already.’ But I can’t.”

She lays her free hand on the very top of the mound and strokes it gently.

“The contractions started maybe an hour ago. But they’re… weak. They come, squeeze for five or ten minutes, then fade away. I thought—okay, now, now it’s going to happen for real. I even tried bearing down on purpose, like this—” She tenses her whole body; her face flushes, veins stand out on her neck. “Come on, babies, come on out!”

She exhales and goes limp. Nothing.

“Zero effect. Nothing at all. It’s like they’ve decided to stay a little longer.” She gives a nervous laugh. “If this keeps up… my belly’s just going to pop like an over-inflated balloon. I’m serious. The skin feels so thin here already…”

The camera zooms in again. You can see the surface quiver faintly from the movements inside.

Twenty more minutes pass. She’s no longer recording a deliberate video—just on a video call with him now. Lying there, breathing heavily.

“…so I’m thinking maybe I should call… or at least—”

Her face suddenly twists. Eyes widen.

“Ah—” A short, sharp cry.  

Silence.  

Then a loud, unmistakable \*\*pop\*\*—like a tightly stretched bag finally giving way.  

Immediately after—a hot, powerful gush of fluid pours onto the sheet, the mattress, the floor.

“Oh yes…” she breathes out, eyes shining with a strange mixture of pain and relief. “It’s happening. It’s really happening.”

She doesn’t end the call. She sets the phone on the edge of the bed (the camera now catches her from the side), slides off the mattress, cradling her belly with both hands. Her steps are heavy, shuffling. Five meters to the bathroom feels like five kilometers.

“I’m… I’m not going to the hospital,” she mutters, already sitting on the edge of the tub, then slowly lowering herself inside. The faucet is still off, but she doesn’t care. “I’m doing it right here. With you on the phone. Don’t argue.”

Now the contractions come one after another, almost no break. She groans, braces her feet against the wall, grips the edges of the tub.

“They’re coming… they’re coming… ohhh… the first one… I can feel him… he’s already down…” Her voice cracks. “He’s pushing… he’s pushing himself…”

She bears down hard, face turning deep red. After several minutes—the first newborn cry rings out in the bathroom, loud and furious.

“One…” she whispers, trembling hands bringing the tiny body to her chest. “One’s out…”

But the contractions don’t stop. Stronger. Lower.

“Wait… wait… there’s another…” She laughs through tears and groans. “Another one’s coming… right now…”

The second baby arrives faster. A few more powerful pushes—and now two small bodies rest against her chest. She breathes in harsh, ragged gasps, soaked with sweat and fluid.

Then her eyes widen again.

“Wait…” she whispers. “Wait a second… there’s a third… I feel a third…”

She pushes once more, almost out of strength but stubborn. One long, agonizing contraction—and the third child slips out with a soft splash.

Silence. Only her heavy breathing and the faint squeaks of three newborns.

She looks down at them, then lifts her gaze toward the phone still lying on the bed, still recording.

“…Three, baby,” she says in a hoarse, happy voice. “Not twins. Triplets. They fooled me for nine whole months… three.”

She gives a weak, radiant smile and presses all three close.

“Come quick. Looks like we’re going to need a really big crib… and a whole lot of everything else.”

End.

(This story was invented by me. The photo was generated by AI.) 