Pregnant Wife Dies During Childbirth. Her In-Laws and Her Husband’s Lover Celebrate—Until the Doctor Whispers…
They declared me dead while I was giving birth.
My husband’s lover wore my wedding sari to celebrate.
My mother-in-law tried to take my newborn and sell my second daughter.
But I wasn’t dead.
I was in a coma.
And I heard every word.
My name is Anna Schmidt, and this is the story of how they tried to bury me alive… and how I came back to destroy them all.
It all began in the delivery room of a hospital in New Delhi, after sixteen hours of contractions that felt like they were tearing me apart. I was sweating, shaking, biting into the pillow. It felt like my body was breaking from the inside.
“Stay calm, Anna, you’re doing very well,” said Dr. Collins. “It’s your first baby. Sometimes it takes time.”
I turned my head, searching for my husband’s hand—Daniel Meyer. He was standing in the corner of the room, glued to his phone. He didn’t even look at me. While I screamed in pain, he kept typing messages.
I wanted to believe he was informing the family.
Today, I know he wasn’t.
Suddenly, I felt something different—an unnatural warmth between my legs. Too much. The nurse looked at the sheet and went pale.
“Doctor!” she shouted. “She’s bleeding heavily!”
I heard the monitor speed up, voices overlapping:
“Hemorrhage!”
“Blood pressure dropping!”
“Prep her for surgery now!”
The ceiling lights began to darken at the edges, as if someone were dimming my life. The beeping turned into one long, continuous sound.
The last thing I heard before everything faded was the doctor shouting:
“We’re losing her!”
And Daniel’s voice—cold, flat:
“Is the baby okay?”
He didn’t ask if I was okay.
He didn’t beg them to save me.
He only wanted to know if the baby had survived.
That was all I meant to him.
Then—darkness.
I don’t know how much time passed.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
Suddenly, I began to hear things. Wheels rolling across the floor. People moving. A sheet pulled over my face. The smell of cotton filled my nose.
“Time of death, 3:47 a.m.,” said a tired voice.
Inside, I started screaming.
I’m not dead! I’m here! I’m alive!
But my mouth wouldn’t move. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t move a single finger. My body was a prison.
They placed me on something cold and metallic. The freezing surface of the morgue table pierced my back, but my skin didn’t react.
I heard the mortuary attendant humming, opening drawers, preparing instruments.
Then his voice:
“Wait…”
Silence.
“I think I feel a pulse. Oh my God… yes, there’s a pulse!”
The world exploded back into noise. They rushed me out, connected me to machines, forced something into my throat, tubes everywhere. I heard commands, footsteps, voices.
Then a different voice—a man’s—spoke close to my ear.
“Mrs. Schmidt, I’m Dr. Williams. You’re in what we call a locked-in state. It’s similar to a deep coma. You may be able to hear us, but you can’t move or respond. We’ll keep you alive, but… the chances of waking up are very low.”
Silence.
“How low?” Daniel asked.
“About five percent. She could remain like this for months… years… or never wake up.”
I waited for my husband to break down.
To say, Do everything. Money doesn’t matter.
Instead, he said:
“I need to make some calls.”
And he left.
Not long after, I heard my mother-in-law’s voice—Margaret Meyer. She had never liked me, but that day her coldness froze my blood.
“So she’s basically… a vegetable?” she asked, as casually as discussing the weather.
“We prefer not to use that term,” the doctor replied.
“What I want to know is how long you’ll keep her like this. Every minute costs money.”
“After thirty days without improvement,” the doctor explained, “the family can decide about life support.”
“Thirty days,” Margaret repeated thoughtfully. “That’s manageable.”
They left.
They left me alone with the beeping machines… and my terror.
I don’t know how many hours later I heard another familiar voice: Sofia, Daniel’s office assistant—the woman whose messages I had already found suspicious.
A small miracle: a nurse had accidentally left a baby monitor on in my room, and their conversation drifted in from the corridor.
“This is actually perfect,” Margaret said.
“Perfect?” Daniel sounded tired, but not devastated. “Mom, my wife is in a coma.”
“She’s as good as dead. You have the baby, you’ll get the insurance money… and Sofia can finally take her place.”
“But she’s technically alive,” he said. “We can’t—”
“Not for long,” Margaret cut him off. “Hospitals hate coma patients. They’re expensive. We wait thirty days, then we disconnect. Clean. Legal. No one suspects a thing.”
“And Anna’s parents?” Daniel asked.
“I’ll handle them. I’ll tell them she died and was cremated. We’ll do a small ceremony here. They live in Jaipur. They won’t find out anything.”
Sofia spoke for the first time, softly:
“Are you sure, sweetheart?” she asked Daniel.
“More than ever,” Margaret replied. “Very soon you’ll have everything—the house, the husband, the baby. Everything.”
I screamed inside my head so hard it made me dizzy.
No one heard me.
On the third day, I learned my baby was a girl. Two nurses whispered nearby:
“Poor Mrs. Schmidt… the grandmother even changed the baby’s name. The mother wanted ‘Hope,’ but the grandmother registered her as ‘Clara.’ And she won’t let the maternal grandparents visit.”
“And the other woman?” the second nurse whispered.
“The mistress? She already acts like the mother. Comes every day with balloons, posts pictures on Instagram. They say she even tried on the patient’s wedding sari for the baby’s welcome party.”
If I could have vomited, I would have.
Sofia wearing my sari.
In my house.
Holding my daughter.
While I was trapped inside my own body.
My parents tried to visit the hospital. I heard the receptionist in the corridor:
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not on the visitor list. Yes, even if you’re her father. Mr. Daniel Meyer and Mrs. Margaret Meyer gave strict instructions.”
An hour later, I heard Margaret on the phone, standing right outside my room:
“Mr. Schmidt, I’m so sorry… Anna passed away this morning. It was very quick, and she didn’t suffer. Daniel is devastated. We’ll do something small here. We’ll inform you.”
She hung up.
There was no funeral.
My parents believed their daughter was dead, while tears streamed from my eyes. A nurse wiped them away.
“Reflexes,” she murmured. “It happens sometimes.”
No.
They weren’t reflexes.
I was crying with rage.
On the twentieth day, everything changed.
I heard Dr. Williams speaking nervously to Daniel in the hallway:
“There’s something that wasn’t properly communicated during the emergency.”
“What now?” Daniel replied, irritated.
“Your wife gave birth to twins. Two girls. One had respiratory distress and was taken straight to the NICU. We’ve been caring for her. She’s stable.”
The silence was heavy.
“Two… daughters?” Daniel whispered. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“We tried to reach you several times,” the doctor said. “But you told us to handle everything and only inform you if it was absolutely necessary. We were focused on saving the babies. The second one doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Don’t tell anyone else,” Daniel snapped. “Anyone. Understood?”
“Sir, she’s your daughter… Anna’s daughter—”
“I said NO,” he cut in. “I need time to think.”
Within an hour, he returned with Margaret and Sofia. Their voices carried clearly from the nurses’ station.
“You idiot,” Margaret hissed. “Two babies and you didn’t check?”
“I was in shock,” Daniel muttered. “No one explained properly.”
“This complicates everything,” she said. “One baby is fine. Everyone has seen her. But the second—hidden in the NICU. If she comes out, people will ask questions.”
“So what do we do?” Sofia asked.
There was a long, heavy pause.
Then Margaret said quietly:
“We give her up. Private adoption. I have a friend in Bengaluru desperate for a baby. She’ll pay one hundred thousand dollars. Cash. No questions.”
“You want to sell my daughter?” Daniel asked—horrified… but not enough.
“She’s not your daughter. She’s a problem,” Margaret replied. “One baby makes you a devoted widower. Two babies make a scandal.”
“My mother is right,” Sofia whispered. “One baby. One family. No loose ends.”
My heart began to race wildly.
The monitors started screaming.
Nurses rushed in…
They declared me dead while I was giving birth.
My husband’s mistress wore my wedding sari to celebrate.
My mother-in-law tried to take my newborn and sell my second daughter.
But I wasn’t dead.
I was in a coma.
And I heard every single word.
My name is Anna Schmidt, and this is the story of how they tried to bury me alive… and how I came back to destroy them all.
It all began in the delivery room of a private hospital in New Delhi, after sixteen hours of contractions that felt like my body was being torn in half. I was drenched in sweat, shaking, biting into the pillow to keep from screaming. Every breath felt like fire.
“Stay calm, Anna, you’re doing well,” said Dr. Collins. “It’s your first baby. Sometimes it takes longer.”
I turned my head, searching for my husband’s hand—Daniel Meyer. He was standing in the corner, glued to his phone. He didn’t look at me once. While I screamed in pain, he typed messages.
I wanted to believe he was informing family.
Now I know he wasn’t.
Suddenly, I felt something different—too much warmth between my legs. The nurse looked at the sheets and went pale.
“Doctor!” she shouted. “She’s bleeding heavily!”
The monitor began to scream. Voices overlapped.
“Post-partum hemorrhage!”
“Blood pressure dropping!”
“Prep the OT now!”
The ceiling lights blurred at the edges, like someone dimming my life. The beeping became one long, flat sound.
The last thing I heard before everything went dark was the doctor yelling:
“We’re losing her!”
And Daniel’s voice—cold, emotionless:
“Is the baby okay?”
He didn’t ask about me.
Didn’t beg them to save me.
Only the baby mattered.
Then—darkness.
I don’t know how much time passed.
Then I started hearing things. Wheels rolling. People moving. A sheet pulled over my face. The smell of cotton filled my nose.
“Time of death, 3:47 a.m.,” a tired voice said.
Inside, I screamed.
I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m alive.
But my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t open my eyes. I was trapped inside myself.
They placed me on cold metal. The morgue slab froze my back, yet my body didn’t react.
I heard the mortuary attendant humming.
Then suddenly—
“Wait…”
Silence.
“I think I feel a pulse. My God—there is a pulse!”
Chaos erupted. Machines. Tubes. Voices. Something forced into my throat.
Then a man’s voice, close to my ear:
“Mrs. Schmidt, I’m Dr. Williams. You’re in what we call locked-in syndrome. A deep coma-like state. You may hear us, but you can’t respond. We’ll keep you alive, but… the chances of waking up are very low.”
Silence.
“How low?” Daniel asked.
“About five percent. She could remain like this for months… years… or never wake up.”
I waited for him to break. To cry. To say do everything.
Instead, he said:
“I need to make some calls.”
And he left.
Soon after, I heard my mother-in-law, Margaret Meyer.
“So she’s basically… a vegetable?” she asked casually.
“We don’t use that term,” the doctor replied.
“What I need to know is how long you’ll keep her like this. Every day costs money.”
“After thirty days without improvement, the family can decide about life support.”
“Thirty days,” Margaret repeated. “That’s manageable.”
They left.
And I lay there, terrified.
A few hours later, I heard another familiar voice—Sofia, Daniel’s office assistant. The woman whose messages I had once questioned.
A nurse had accidentally left a baby monitor on.
“This is actually perfect,” Margaret said.
“Perfect?” Daniel replied. “She’s my wife.”
“She’s as good as dead. You have the baby, the insurance money, and Sofia can finally take her place.”
“She’s technically alive…”
“Not for long,” Margaret cut him off. “Hospitals hate coma patients. Expensive. We wait thirty days, then unplug. Clean. Legal.”
“And her parents?”
“I’ll handle them. I’ll tell them she died and was cremated. They live in Jaipur. They won’t know.”
Sofia spoke softly:
“Are you sure, darling?”
“Absolutely,” Margaret said. “You’ll have everything—the house, the husband, the baby.”
I screamed inside my head until it hurt.
On the third day, I learned my baby was a girl.
A nurse whispered to another:
“The grandmother changed the baby’s name. The mother wanted ‘Hope’. She registered her as ‘Clara’. And she won’t let the maternal grandparents visit.”
“And the other woman?”
“The mistress? Acting like the mother. Comes every day. Posts pictures online. Apparently she even wore the patient’s wedding sari for the baby’s welcome party.”
I wanted to vomit.
On day twenty, everything changed.
I heard Dr. Williams speaking urgently to Daniel.
“There’s something you weren’t informed about.”
“What now?”
“Your wife delivered twins. Two girls. One had breathing issues and was in NICU. She’s stable now.”
Silence.
“Twins?”
“We tried contacting you, but you told us to handle everything. The second baby doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Don’t tell anyone else,” Daniel snapped.
An hour later, Margaret and Sofia arrived.
“This complicates everything,” Margaret hissed.
“One baby is manageable. Two raise questions.”
“What do we do?” Sofia asked.
After a long pause, Margaret said quietly:
“We give the second one up. Private adoption. I know a couple in Mumbai. They’ll pay cash. No questions.”
“Sell my daughter?” Daniel whispered.
“She’s not a daughter. She’s a problem.”
My heart raced. Alarms went off.
“She’s crying,” a nurse said.
“Reflex,” another replied.
But one nurse wasn’t convinced.
“Call Child Welfare. And security.”
On the night of day twenty-nine, my finger moved.
Then my eyes.
Then my voice.
“My… babies…”
I told the doctors everything.
Every word I’d heard.
The next morning—day thirty—Daniel, Margaret, and Sofia arrived to “pull the plug.”
They opened the door.
I was sitting upright.
“Hello,” I said calmly. “Did your dead woman wake up too early?”
Police stepped in.
Both my daughters were already safe—with my parents.
Months later, in a Delhi courtroom, the verdict was read.
Daniel: 8 years
Margaret: 5 years
Sofia: 3 years
Permanent restraining orders.
My daughters—Clara and Hope—slept in my arms.
They tried to erase me.
They forgot one thing:
I am a mother.
And mothers don’t stay buried.
We rise.