She never heard her baby cry. That was the first thing that broke her.
There was movement in the room—doctors talking fast, machines squealing, hands pressing and raising hands—but there was no sound she had been waiting for for nine months. No small voice. No first breath.
Someone finally spoke these words gently, as if the power of the voice could soften the truth:
“We are very sorry.”
Her son disappeared before she could hug him.
In the following days, her body hurt terribly. Her arms were empty, but heavy, as if they were still going to carry someone. The milk was coming anyway. Life stubbornly went on, even though she felt as if it had stopped.
Her husband stood next to her at the funeral in a black suit that didn’t quite fit her. He held her hand, but his grip was loose. His eyes wandered. She thought it was mourning. She wanted to believe that it was mourning.
She buried her child.
And soon after, she realized that she had buried the truth as well.
Late nights have become commonplace. Phones answered in the other room. The smell of an unknown perfume hovered over his clothes. When she asked, he said she imagined something—that sadness made her suspicious and unstable.
She apologized for asking.
Until one evening she accidentally found this news. No drama. No confrontation at the beginning. Only words glowing softly on the screen, confessing what he had never dared to say out loud.
He was unfaithful.
When she was pregnant.
When she carried life inside her.
When she prayed for the safe birth of the child.
Betrayal struck differently than loss. More severely. Colder. The loss left her empty. The betrayal made her feel erased.
ADVERTISEMENT
ADVERTISEMENT
