A pregnant woman suddenly felt sick in the middle of a busy street. She swayed, holding her stomach, and slowly sank to her knees. Passersby shrank back, but no one approached.
“Now the drama begins,” murmured someone in the queue outside the café.
“Maybe she’s just dizzy,” suggested another.
“Or a fraud,” snapped a woman in a coat, taking out her phone to film.
No one moved. Only I took a step forward. Not because I knew what to do—I just couldn’t watch. Her face was chalk white, her lips trembling.
“What about you?” I asked, kneeling beside her.
She couldn’t speak. Contractions? Fainting? Pain? I didn’t know. Behind me, I heard:
“Now he’s going to rob her and look like a hero.”
“Hey you! Don’t touch her, you idiot! She might have some kind of illness!”
I didn’t listen. I picked her up, took her to my car, and drove her to the nearest hospital. But there, something terrible happened. 😱😱
In the reception area, everything suddenly happened very quickly. The doctors started running. The minutes dragged on. Then the doctor came:
“You arrived in time. The woman has a uterine rupture. We need to operate immediately. Without you, neither she nor the child would have survived.”
I stood there, completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t feel my arms or legs.
Two days later, I went into the room with flowers, simply to make her happy. But when I entered, the woman was crying.
“You… you can’t imagine this,” she whispered. “This is my fifth child. The other four died in the womb. This one is the first to survive. I had already said goodbye. And you… you are an angel.”
I sat down next to her. The baby was sleeping in the crib. A girl. Pink, warm, alive.
“What did you name her?” I asked.
The woman smiled through her tears:
“Nadja. In honor of you.”
