Book 1 WHEN THE WOMB CRIES (1) Complete Hausa Novel Document by Book 1 WHEN THE WOMB CRIES (1)

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Psychological Medical Suspense Thriller: The Fibroid Series

 WHEN THE WOMB CRIES

A Woman's Story of Fibroids, Fear, and Fighting to Live

A NOVEL

USA Book Reviews Bestselling Author

BY: JADEN AKIN    

THE BOOK

She called it a heavy period.

Her doctor called it normal.

Her husband called it manageable.

Her body called it something else entirely.

In Lagos, Amaka collapses in the corridor of a private hospital while her mother-in-law lights candles in the waiting room and prays not for her survival but for her womb. In Atlanta, Ariana wakes from emergency surgery to a silence so complete she understands immediately that something has been taken from her that no one asked her permission to take. In Boston, Claire sits in a fertility clinic being told for the third time that her body has failed at the one thing the world has decided defines her, and she smiles the smile of a woman who has learned that falling apart is a luxury she cannot afford.

Three women. Three continents.

One condition that medicine has had the language for and the will to ignore for generations.

Fibroids.

Not rare. Not mysterious. Not new.

Affecting one in three women. Striking Black women with a severity and frequency that the research papers note and the health systems do not act on. Causing hemorrhage, miscarriage, organ damage, and death while the world files it quietly under the category of things women are expected to endure.

But when Amaka's surgery goes wrong in the middle of the night and a doctor stands in a corridor making a decision that will determine whether she sees morning, the silence that has protected this condition for decades begins to crack.

What these three women discover when they find each other is not just that they share a diagnosis.

It is that they share an enemy. And it has been hiding inside the silence the whole time.

When the Womb Cries is a raw, intimate, heart-stopping psychological medical thriller about three women who were told their pain was normal, believed it for too long, and survived long enough to understand that normal was always the lie.

Once you open this book, the bleeding does not stop until the last page.

And even then, you will not be able to look away.

PROLOGUE

The first time Amaka bled through her dress at a client meeting, she was twenty-six years old and had no language for what was happening to her body.

She excused herself from the conference table with the calm precision of a woman who had learned early that composure was survival. She walked to the bathroom, locked the door, and stood in front of the mirror for three full minutes without moving.

The fabric was ruined. The meeting was not over. She had a presentation to finish and a client to impress and a business that was two years old and still fragile enough that one bad impression could send it sideways.

She folded toilet paper into her underwear, smoothed her dress as much as the dark stain allowed, draped her blazer around her waist, and walked back into that conference room.

She finished the presentation.

She got the client.

She drove home that evening and said nothing to her husband about what had happened.

She said nothing because she did not know what to say. She said nothing because her mother had never spoken about these things. She said nothing because the women around her bled heavily and cramped badly and pressed hot water bottles to their stomachs and went to work anyway and called it womanhood and she had no reason yet to believe her experience was anything different.

She would not know for another four years.

In Atlanta, at that same hour, a woman named Ariana was sitting in a law firm bathroom on the fourteenth floor counting the minutes until she could leave a partners meeting without it being noticed. She was pressing her hand flat against her lower abdomen and breathing through her teeth and calculating with the detached precision of a corporate attorney exactly how much longer she could hold herself together before her body made the decision for her.

In Boston, Claire was lying on an examination table in a fertility clinic being told for the second time in eight months that the IVF cycle had not worked. She was nodding. She was saying the right things. She was performing the face of a woman who was processing this with maturity and perspective. Inside, in the place she never let anyone see, something was tearing quietly.

Three women. Three cities. Three bodies carrying a weight that the world had not yet agreed to call by its name.

This is where their story begins.

Not at the moment of diagnosis. Not at the moment of surgery. Not at the moment one of them nearly died on an operating table in Lagos while her husband paced the corridor outside and her mother-in-law lit candles and prayed to God for a womb that could still be useful.

It begins here. In the ordinary moments of ordinary days. In the bathrooms and the boardrooms and the examination tables where women learn, over and over again, that their bodies are problems to be managed rather than lives to be honored.

It begins in the silence.

It always begins in the silence.

CONTENTS

Dedication I

Epigraphs II 

Prologue III 

Author's Introduction

A Note to the Reader

ACT ONE: NORMALIZED PAIN

Chapter One: The Stain

Chapter Two: Lagos Laughter

Chapter Three: The Quiet Countdown

Chapter Four: It's Just Heavy Periods

Chapter Five: The Prayer Line

Chapter Six: Calendar Math

ACT TWO: BREAKING

Chapter Seven: The Scan

Chapter Eight: Silence at Work

Chapter Nine: The Group Chat

Chapter Ten: Blood Count

Chapter Eleven: Insurance Denied

Chapter Twelve: Intimacy Interrupted

Chapter Thirteen: The Miscarriage

Chapter Fourteen: The Emergency Room

BRIDGE TO BOOK 2

A Note from the Author

Acknowledgments

A Note on Medical Resources

The story continues in Book 2: When the Womb Speaks.

About the Author 215

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

I am not a woman.

I want to say that plainly at the beginning of this book because I believe you deserve to know exactly who is speaking to you and why.

I am a husband. I am a man who sat in hospital waiting rooms and held hands that were shaking and listened to doctors use words that were technically accurate and emotionally empty. I am a man who watched the woman I love most in this world spend years in pain that was minimized, misunderstood, and frequently dismissed. I am a man who had to learn, slowly and sometimes shamefully, that the silence I mistook for peace was actually a woman who had learned that the world did not have the patience for her truth.

This book began as a whisper. Not a metaphor. An actual whisper, the kind women have been passing between themselves in kitchens and bathrooms and hospital waiting rooms and hushed phone calls for generations, the kind that travels between a mother and a daughter, between sisters, between friends sitting across from each other at a table after everyone else has gone home. The whisper that says: me too. I have been in pain too. I thought it was just me.

It is never just you.

That is the first thing this book wants you to know. Before the story begins, before you meet Ariana in an Atlanta boardroom in a white suit that is about to betray her, before you find Amaka in a Lagos fabric market pressing her hand against her side in the private gesture of a woman who has been managing something for years, before you sit with Claire in a Boston apartment reading news on a medical portal that she has been bracing for and is somehow still not prepared to receive, before any of it, this is the thing this book is built on:

You are not alone.

You have never been alone.

There are an estimated two hundred million women living with uterine fibroids worldwide at any given time. Two hundred million. A number that large loses its meaning quickly, becomes statistical rather than human, becomes a fact you file rather than a fact you feel. So let it be smaller. Let it be the woman in the office two doors down from you who is leaving early for the third time this month and saying it is stress, saying it is something in her back, saying she is fine. Let it be your mother, who had surgery once in her early forties and never fully explained what for, who described it with the word that women of her generation applied to everything that happened south of the navel: women's problems. Let it be you, reading this in the particular way you read things that are about you, recognizing sentences before you finish them, feeling the specific and slightly breathless quality of finding words for something you have been carrying without words.

Let it be as small as one woman.

Because that is where it starts. With one woman who stops calling it normal.

I know this because I have lived it. And I need to tell you how.

***

A True Account

I need to tell you about a car journey.

Not because it was the worst day. Looking back, I understand now that by the time that day arrived, the worst had already been happening quietly for a long time. But it was the day that broke the silence open. It was the day that forced me to see, fully and without the comfortable distance of a husband who tells himself his wife is managing, that something was seriously wrong and that the world around us was completely unprepared to help.

My wife's name is Queeneth .

I want to say her name before I say anything else, because this story belongs to her before it belongs to this book or to me or to any reader who picks it up. Queeneth . A woman of composure and faith and a warmth so specific that rooms are different when she is in them. A woman who had been carrying something in her body for years before either of us understood what it was, who had been managing it in the way she had learned to manage everything, quietly and without asking the world to adjust its pace for her pain.

We had traveled to Kogi State together. I had been invited for a program and she came with me, the way she always did, present and supportive and giving no indication that her body was carrying anything heavier than the day demanded. That was the thing about her. That was the thing about so many women I would later come to understand through writing this book. She had learned to carry her pain as quietly as a second skin. You would not have known, sitting across from her, that anything was wrong. She was composed. She was herself. She had been practicing that composure for years without either of us fully understanding that is what it was.

The event ended. We got into a commercial cab for the long journey back to Lagos. Anyone who knows Nigeria knows this kind of journey. Long road. Shared vehicle. Strangers pressed close together in ways that leave no room for private catastrophe. We sat at the back. Queeneth was on my left. A man was on my right. Three people at the front. Three at the middle seat. Three of us at the back. The road stretched ahead the way Nigerian roads do, long and indifferent, full of the ordinary noise and motion of people traveling between one part of their lives and another.

Somewhere on that road, Queeneth said my name quietly.

I turned to look at her, and I saw it on her face before she said anything else. Not panic. Something quieter than panic and more frightening. The face of a woman who has just discovered that her body has made a decision without consulting her. She said she noticed something was dropping.

She had never bled like this before in her life.

Not like this. Not this volume. Not this sudden. Not this completely beyond any preparation or management or composure she had available to her. She was sitting in the back seat of a commercial cab between her husband and a stranger on a long road between Kogi State and Lagos, and her body was doing something she had no language for and no way to stop and no privacy in which to address.

I reached for my towel.

I always travel with my own towel. I do not use hotel towels when I travel; it is simply a habit I have always had, and on that day, it was the only practical thing I could offer in that moment. I passed it to her as quietly and as discreetly as I could manage in a shared vehicle with people on all sides of us. I passed it to her, kept my face steady and my voice low, and I said the kind of things a husband says when he is frightened and has nothing real to offer except his presence.

The towel was soaked through.

The journey from Kogi State to Lagos is not a short journey. It asks something of you on an ordinary day. On that day, it asked everything. Queeneth could not sit properly. She sat at an angle, shifted forward, trying to manage what was happening to her body with the particular dignity of a woman who has been taught since girlhood that the things that happen to her body are her private business and nobody else's discomfort to carry. She did not cry out. She did not make a scene. She sat in that car for hours and she managed and I sat beside her doing the inadequate thing that husbands do when they are frightened and have no tools, which is to keep my voice steady and my hand close and speak words that were meant to reassure but were really just the sound of a man who did not yet understand what he was sitting next to.

I did not understand what we were inside.

I understand now.

By the time we reached Lagos, several of her clothes were soaked through. Everything she had thought would be sufficient was not sufficient. Nothing was sufficient for what her body was producing.

We had to board another vehicle from Berger to continue toward our destination along the Lagos Badagry Expressway. That is not a short distance. That is another long stretch of road, another vehicle, another seat, another hour of a woman in wet clothing holding herself together by will alone because she had no other available option, and she was not the kind of woman who let herself fall apart in public. She had spent years learning not to be that woman. The learning was costing her now in ways neither of us had the full accounting for yet.

At some point, we could not continue.

We stopped at Egbeda. I had a former colleague who lived near that bus stop. It was not home. It was not a hospital. It was simply the nearest place I could think of that had four walls and some measure of privacy, somewhere Queeneth could breathe without strangers watching her breathe.

We stepped off the bus.

We got on a motorcycle, an okada, for the last stretch to my colleague's place.

When we climbed off that motorcycle, her clothing was completely soaked through. Visible to anyone who looked. There was nowhere to hide it and no way to manage it. There was nothing left of the composure she had been holding for hours. It was gone. She was standing on a street in Egbeda and her body had finally exceeded the capacity of every strategy she had ever developed for keeping this private.

A woman standing nearby looked at her.

I want you to slow down here with me. I want you to feel this moment the way I have felt it every time I have returned to it in the years since, because this moment is the heart of why I wrote this book and why I believe, completely and without reservation, in the power of women to see each other in ways the world has not yet learned.

This woman, whose name I do not know and will never know, looked at Queeneth on that street and understood in less than three seconds what was happening, what was needed, and what she had the power to give. She did not hesitate. She did not look away. She did not do the calculation that strangers sometimes do when they encounter someone else's emergency, the calculation that weighs inconvenience and social awkwardness and the desire to not get involved.

She took the wrapper from around her own body.

She walked forward.

She wrapped it around Queeneth right there on the street in Egbeda without being asked, without requiring explanation, without making the woman she was covering feel shame for what needed to be covered.

She just came forward, and she covered her.

I have thought about that woman more times than I can count. She is in this book. Not with a name, not with a scene, but she is in the marrow of it, in the reason it exists. She did in three seconds on a street in Lagos what the medical system had failed to do in years. She saw a woman. She moved toward her instead of away. She offered the only thing that was needed in that specific moment, which was dignity.

My colleague was not home when we arrived. We waited inside. Queeneth cleaned up. I sat with the particular helplessness of a man who loves someone and has just fully understood that love alone is not a medical protocol, that wanting your wife to be well and knowing how to make her well are not the same thing, that the years of telling myself she was managing had been a convenience I had allowed myself and not a truth I had actually verified.

We went to the hospital.

The scans were done.

The doctor said: fibroids.

He said it the way doctors say words they have said many hundreds of times before, with the clinical neutrality of a person for whom this is information rather than revelation. Fibroids. Here is the explanation. Here is the general treatment pathway. Here is your next appointment. The word arrived with the weight of routine, of a system processing a case it had seen before and would see again.

But I was not processing a case. I was sitting next to my wife, the woman I had watched bleed through a towel on a highway in Kogi State, the woman a stranger had covered with her own wrapper on a street in Egbeda, the woman who had been carrying this in her body for years while I sat beside her and called it managing, and the word fibroids felt so completely insufficient for the weight of what we had just lived through that I had to sit with it for a long time before I could say anything at all.

And then it got worse.

I want to be honest with you here because I believe you deserve honesty more than you deserve a comfortable story. There came a time after the diagnosis when the condition progressed to a point I had not anticipated. The fibroids began producing a discharge. Not from her cycle. Not blood in the way that could be measured and managed and planned around. A watery, odorous discharge that was constant and daily and present regardless of where she was in her cycle. She could not leave the house without wearing a pad every single day. Not during her period. Every day. Just to manage what her body was producing without schedule, warning, or mercy.

Think about what that means for a woman's life.

Think about what it means for her confidence. For her comfort. For her ability to move through the world feeling that her body belongs to her. Think about the mental and emotional cost of managing something that intimate, that relentless, and that completely invisible to everyone around her. She went to meetings. She went to social events. She moved through the ordinary days of her life, and underneath all of it, every single day, she was managing something that nobody around her knew about and that the world had given her no words to name publicly without embarrassment.

A lot of women are doing exactly this right now.

Not Queeneth specifically. Not the woman I happened to love and marry. Women everywhere. Women in offices and markets and schools and places of worship and university halls and law firms and Lagos studios and Boston apartments. Women who set their alarms early to have time to manage before they face the world. Women who calculate the distance to the nearest bathroom before they agree to go anywhere. Women who have quietly rearranged the entire logistics of their existence around a condition that nobody around them knows about because nobody has asked the right questions, or the system has given them a word without following it with enough help, or the culture has taught them that endurance is grace and complaint is weakness, and the two must not be confused.

I felt something when I understood this fully. A kind of anger that did not have anywhere useful to go yet but that was building toward this book. Building toward these three women on these pages, toward the Atlanta boardroom and the Lagos fabric market and the Boston apartment. Building toward the true thing underneath the fictional story, which is that what happened to Queeneth on that highway was not an isolated event, not an unlucky coincidence, and not simply the private suffering of one woman on one journey.

It was the experience of millions of women who are still waiting for the medical system to take them seriously, still waiting for someone to see them the way that stranger in Egbeda saw Queeneth  on the street, still waiting for the wrapper.

I wrote this book to be the wrapper.

What This Book Is and What It Is Not

This is a novel. Ariana, Amaka, and Claire are not real women in the documentary sense. Their cities and their marriages and their medical histories and the specific texture of their interior lives are constructed, shaped by imagination and research and the particular care of a writer who spent a long time inside the question of what it would mean to tell this story with the honesty it deserves.

But they are real in the way that all true fiction is real, which is to say they are assembled from the truth. Their symptoms are medically accurate. Their diagnostic journeys reflect what millions of real women experience in real examination rooms with real doctors who are doing their best inside systems that have not always prioritized the experience of women, and particularly not the experience of Black women, when it comes to reproductive health. The delays in their diagnoses are not invented for dramatic effect. The years of being told to monitor, to manage, to wait, to adjust their expectations rather than address the source of their suffering, those years are a documented reality that I have watched from the closest possible distance.

The racial health disparity thread woven through Ariana's story is not editorializing. Black women are two to three times more likely to develop uterine fibroids than white women. They develop them younger. They develop more of them. The fibroids grow larger. The symptoms are more severe. And Black women are, on average, diagnosed later, treated less aggressively, and offered fewer fertility-preserving options than white women with identical presentations. These are not opinions. They are findings, repeated across studies, replicated in clinical data, acknowledged by the medical community and insufficiently addressed by it.

This book does not pretend otherwise.

It also does not reduce its characters to their diagnoses.

Ariana is not a fibroid patient who happens to have a personality. She is a woman, a lawyer, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a person who has built a considerable life and a considerable wall around the parts of that life she was afraid to show, and the fibroids are the thing that eventually, unavoidably, make the wall impossible to maintain.

Amaka is not a fertility statistic. She is an artist, an entrepreneur, and a woman of deep and complicated faith, navigating the intersection of a loving marriage and the weight of a family's expectations and her own interior life, which is more honest than anything she has been showing anyone. Her story is not Queeneth 's story directly. But Queeneth  is in the DNA of it. The highway is in the DNA of it. The dignity of the woman who has been managing in silence and deserves to be seen is in every page Amaka occupies.

Claire is not a cautionary tale about delayed treatment. She is a woman who has spent her professional life making other people's suppressed experiences legible and has been, with considerable irony, suppressing her own.

Three women. Three cities. Three marriages under different kinds of pressure. Three bodies that have been asking for attention in the only language bodies know, which is pain and interruption and the refusal, eventually, to be ignored.

The Silence This Book Is Fighting

There is a particular silence that surrounds women's reproductive health and it is not accidental. It has a history.

It has been maintained by cultural norms that designated the female body as simultaneously central to family life and too embarrassing to discuss directly. It has been maintained by a medical establishment that spent centuries studying the male body as the default and treating female experience as deviation from the norm. It has been maintained by the women themselves, by the way they learned to call it women's problems and move on, by the way they watched their mothers call it that and learned from the watching, by the way they absorbed the message that endurance was a form of grace and complaint was a form of weakness.

Not long before I finished writing this book, I came across a video of a young woman, a student, who was calling on every woman in academia to redirect their research toward women, toward the conditions that dismantle women's lives while the world looks elsewhere. And then she said something that stopped me completely. She pointed out that while conditions like fibroids and PCOS, conditions that steal women's fertility and their quality of life and their ability to move through the world without pain, remain under-researched and undertreated, a pharmaceutical company had released phase three trial results for a treatment for male pattern baldness, showing a 510 percent increase in hair growth.

I sat with that for a long time.

I thought about Queeneth on the highway.

I thought about the towel.

I thought about the word the doctor said like it was routine when nothing about it was routine.

I am not saying that men's health does not matter. I am saying that when a condition causing hair thinning receives the research attention and the urgency and the celebration that conditions causing hemorrhage and infertility and decade-long suffering in women cannot seem to attract, something is wrong. Not with the science. With the priorities behind the science. With the decisions about what matters enough to study, to fund, to solve.

That young woman on the internet was right.

And this book is my attempt to be part of the answer.

What This Book Will Ask of You

It will ask you to sit with discomfort.

Not the discomfort of difficult subject matter in the abstract. The discomfort of recognition. The discomfort of reading a sentence about a woman planning her wardrobe around her bleeding and feeling, somewhere in your chest, the particular twinge of a thing you know from the inside. The discomfort of the calendar math chapter, the list of days in a year that were explained as something other than what they actually were, and feeling your own calendar rearranging itself in your mind without your full permission.

That discomfort is the book working.

Let it work.

It will also ask you to stay with the characters through the parts that are not crisis. Through the ordinary evenings and the conversations that circle around the real thing and the marriages being repaired slowly and the documents being written in the middle of the night and the group chat messages and all the small, incremental moments of a woman learning to stop managing and start living inside her own story.

The emergency room means something different because you have been in every waiting room that came before it.

A Note on Medical Information

The medical content in this novel is accurate to the best of current clinical knowledge and has been written with care for the women who might be reading it in a state of self-recognition.

Uterine fibroids are non-cancerous tumors that grow in or on the uterus. They are influenced by hormones, particularly estrogen. They affect the majority of women at some point in their lives, with higher rates and more severe presentations in Black women. They can cause heavy and prolonged menstrual bleeding, pelvic pain, frequent urination, pain during sex, abnormal discharge, and complications with fertility and pregnancy. They are frequently undertreated, frequently misattributed to other causes, and frequently normalized in the language of heavy periods and women's problems in ways that delay diagnosis and allow the condition to progress.

They are not, in the vast majority of cases, fatal.

But the silence around them, and the healthcare disparities they reveal, and the cumulative cost of years spent managing rather than treating those things, cause harm that is real and documented and ongoing. I watched that harm up close. I watched it on a highway in Kogi State and on a street in Egbeda and in a hospital room where a word was given and not enough help followed it.

If you are reading this book and you recognize your own body in its pages, please talk to a doctor. Not to be managed. To be examined, diagnosed, and offered the full range of treatment options that exist. Ask questions. Bring your list. Take someone with you if you need to. Do not accept common as a reason to continue suffering.

You deserve specific answers and a specific plan.

The Three Women

Before the story begins, a brief introduction to the women you are about to spend this book with, because they deserve to be introduced as people rather than first encountered as symptoms.

Ariana Cole Johnson is a thirty-two years old Black American woman, an associate partner at a corporate law firm in Atlanta, a woman who has built everything she has through exceptional competence and exceptional self-containment, who has been managing a body in crisis for nearly a decade with the same professional discipline she applies to everything else, and who is about to find out what happens when the management reaches its limit. She is brilliant and guarded and deeply loving in the way of people who love fiercely precisely because they have learned that showing it fully is a risk. Her marriage to Marcus is real and strong and has been happening, for a year, in the edited version rather than the full one. She is about to give him the full one.

Amaka Okoye is a thirty-four years old Nigerian woman in Lagos, the founder of a fashion label called Ọmọ that has been growing faster than she expected, a woman of faith who has been discovering over the course of this year that faith and action are not opposites but are the same thing in different stages, a woman who has been trying to have a child with her husband Chike through three years that have included three miscarriages and a fibroid diagnosis that has been inadequately treated and the weight of a family's expectations and her own private grief. She is warm and precise and funnier than she lets most people see. She is braver than she knows, which is the specific condition of brave people before they are required to prove it. She is, in ways I did not plan when I began writing her, the woman on that highway in Kogi State, the woman on that street in Egbeda. Not literally. But in the marrow of her story.

Claire Whitman is thirty-eight years old, a white American woman in Boston, a university professor who has spent her career studying the literature of women whose interior lives were suppressed by the cultures they lived in, who has been, with considerable irony and complete lack of awareness of the irony, suppressing her own. She has been going through IVF cycles that have failed, three of them, and has been treating her body as a problem to be solved with sufficient data and sufficient rigor rather than as a living thing with its own requirements and its own language. The fibroids that have been complicating her fertility are the same fibroids that have been causing her harm independent of the fertility question, and she is about to be told this by a doctor who is direct enough to say what the previous doctors were not, and the telling is going to require her to become someone slightly different from who she has been, which is the requirement that tends to feel most like loss and turns out, in retrospect, to have been the necessary thing all along.

These three women are going to find each other. Across the improbable distance of an online support forum, in the specific late-night honesty of people who say true things to strangers they cannot see, they are going to recognize themselves in each other. They are going to become something to each other that none of them has language for yet, something that is more than forum acquaintances and less clinical than a support group and more honest than most of the relationships in their actual daily lives.

They are going to become the voices each of them needed and did not have.

And eventually, they are going to take those voices somewhere larger than a private message thread.

But first, they have to survive the year that you are about to read.

Before You Turn the Page

Queeneth gave me her blessing to tell this story. More than her blessing. She asked me to tell it. She said: if one woman reads this and goes to the doctor earlier, if one woman reads this and stops calling it normal, if one woman reads this and feels less alone in the back seat of whatever car she is sitting in right now, then every vulnerable sentence was worth writing.

So, here is the vulnerable sentence that started everything:

My wife bled through a towel on a highway in Kogi State. A stranger wrapped her in a cloth on a street in Egbeda. The medical system gave us a word and not much else. And I decided that was not good enough, had never been good enough, and that the least I could do with the full weight of what I had witnessed was turn it into something that might reach the women who were still waiting for someone to see them.

That is this book.

I hope it finds you before the highway.

I hope it finds you early enough that you make the call this week, ask the question this week, sit in the examination room and refuse to leave with less than you deserve this week.

If it finds you after, if you are reading this from the other side of your own long road, I want you to know that you were never alone in it. The stranger with the wrapper is in these pages waiting for you.

She always was.

Turn the page.

The womb has something to say.

When the Womb Cries Book 1 of the Blood Never Lies Series

Jaden Akin

In honor of Queeneth and every woman who is still waiting to be found.

Jaden Akin

— ★ —

She thought the pain was something she could survive. Then the doctors found something she could no longer ignore.

Every test brings another question. Every decision carries a cost. And as fear closes in, she must fight for her life before the truth becomes impossible to escape.

When the Womb Cries is the beginning of The Fibroid Series.