On the screen of Matteo’s tablet was a verified GoFundMe page titled "Help the Rossi-Miller Septuplets Survive!"—and the counter was sitting at $384,000.
Right underneath it was a scanned contract that Matteo’s younger brother had photographed off Donna’s kitchen counter. Without our knowledge or consent, Donna had formed an LLC in her own name, pocketed nearly four hundred thousand dollars in public donations meant for our babies’ NICU bills, and just signed a $150,000 exclusive first-photo licensing advance with a national tabloid magazine.
"When I confronted her ten minutes ago," Matteo said, his voice shaking with fury, "she told me that since you have a fifty percent chance of dying during the C-section anyway, she’s Already petitioned a family court judge for emergency temporary guardianship of the babies—and control of the trust—claiming you’re medically incapacitated and I’m 'emotionally unstable'!"
Before I could even process the sheer evil of a woman betting on my death to cash a half-million-dollar check, a blinding, white-hot pain ripped through my lower abdomen.
At first, I gasped, praying it was just another Braxton Hicks contraction.
Then the pain returned. Stronger. Deeper. A vise-grip agony that pulled my entire body taut and made my vision blur at the edges.
Matteo dropped the tablet and lunged for the red emergency call button on the wall. "Camilla?! Has it started?!"
I couldn't even speak. I just crushed his hand in mine as warm fluid soaked the hospital sheets and the fetal monitors began blaring a frantic red alert.
Everything after that happened at terrifying speed. Heavy double doors flew open, metal gurneys banged against corridor walls, and fluorescent ceiling lights blurred past my eyes as twelve nurses and surgical residents sprinted beside my bed. I looked up at their faces; they tried to sound calm, barking out blood-type orders and incubator numbers, yet their eyes couldn't hide the sheer panic.
The operating room was blindingly bright, freezing cold, and packed with thirty-two medical personnel—seven separate neonatal resuscitation teams lined up in a row with seven heated plastic isolettes waiting.
As the anesthesiologist pressed the oxygen mask over my face, I looked at the sterile white ceiling and thought for the first time: I might not walk out of this room alive. I’m not ashamed to admit I was terrified of dying. But I was ten times more terrified that my babies wouldn't survive—or worse, that if I died on this table, Donna would get her hands on them.
"Alright, everyone, lock in!" Dr. Rossi’s voice echoed across the theater as the surgical curtain went up. "Get ready. We are delivering seven high-risk premature infants. Speed is life."
Seven. Everyone in that room—and the news vans parked outside the hospital—was counting on seven babies.
Two minutes later, I felt a heavy tug, and then I heard it.
The first cry. It was so tiny, so thin and fragile, like a kitten mewing in the rain, that I thought I was hallucinating from the anesthesia.
"Baby A is out! Breathing on his own!" a nurse called out.
Hot tears spilled down my temples into my hair.
Sixty seconds later, the second cry echoed. Then the third. The fourth.
I couldn't see them past the blue surgical drape, and my blood pressure was dropping fast, making the room spin. All I could hold onto were those tiny cries. To me, every little sound was an entire universe shouting: I’m here, Mama. I’m breathing. I’m fighting.
"Baby E is out! Strong heart rate!"
"Baby F—she’s breathing!"
"And... Baby G! That’s seven! All seven are alive!"
Someone in the operating room let out a loud, shaky sigh of relief, and a few nurses actually clapped through their surgical gloves. My chest felt light. I closed my heavy eyes for a second, ready to drift off, thanking God that the nightmare was over and all seven of my children had made it.
And that was the exact second Dr. Rossi’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper.
"Wait..."
That single word froze all thirty-two people in the operating room. The applause stopped dead. The only sound left was the rapid beep-beep-beep of my heart monitor.
"Dr. Rossi?" the scrub nurse asked nervously. "Is she hemorrhaging?"
"No," Dr. Rossi breathed, his eyes locked inside my open abdomen as he waved the ultrasound tech over in a panic. "Get the portable probe on her uterus right now. And somebody lock the operating room doors—because what I’m looking at wasn't on any of her scans."
