April 12
I cant stop replaying the night when James handed me a bottle of water, his fingers trembling as he passed it to me. I took it with shaky hands, stepped out of the car, and he slipped into the drivers seat, turned the engine over and bolted away, leaving me alone on the edge of a wood near a small town. I washed my face, tried to tame my tangled hair, pulled my coat tighter and, with hesitant steps, started toward the city.
Im from a farming village in the Midlands. I came to university to study veterinary science, now in my final year, and my grades have always reflected how seriously I take this calling. I wanted a qualification that would let me escape the poverty and the drunken, desperate arguments back home, while staying close to the animals I love.
That evening my classmates invited me to a party thrown by one of the affluent students. I hesitated, but thought a little fun might do me good. The house was packed, music blaredfar from my tasteso I spent most of the night on the terrace, a glass of orange juice in my hand, watching the lake glint in the moonlight.
James suggested a drive through the town at night to get away from the crowd. I agreed, but it quickly turned into a mistake. He drove me out of town, forced me into the back seat The fragmented flashes of that ride still sting, and every muscle aches when I think of it. I cant recall how I got back to my dormitory. I locked myself in my room, collapsed onto the bed, and sobbed into my pillow for hours before drifting into a restless, anxious sleep.
I missed several days of lectures, haunted by the question of what to do next. Call the police? After all, no one forced me into the car; I naïvely went with a stranger at night. Seek comfort from my mother? Shes constantly caught between binge drinking and frantic scrambles for money to buy more. I was left alone with pain and humiliation.
Months passed and I almost recovered. I attended classes, chatted with my flatmates, and tried hard not to think about that night. It worked, almost.
One morning I woke with a wave of nausea and rushed to the bathroom. I brushed it off as a bad fastfood dinner. But it happened again, and again. I was only seventeen, but I soon realized what was happening. Hours later, holding a pregnancy test, I stared at the white line and felt my world collapse. I was pregnant.
I dont want this child, I thought, not the one that will constantly remind me of what happened. I hate it. I wanted nothing more than to end it, so that very day I went to the clinic.
The procedure is simple, the nurse said, but you must understand I cant get involved legally. Youre underage and without parental consent or police involvement, theres nothing I can do.
Okay, Ill come with my mother tomorrow, I replied, though I knew shed never bring me anywhere sober.
I left the room, aware that my mother, even if she sobered up, would never take me anywhere. I was still a minor for seven more months, and the due date was six months away, so I had no choice but to endure the pregnancy.
Days turned into months. I finished my studies, delighted that my belly remained barely noticeable even in the fifth month. I found a job as a veterinary assistant and rented a tiny flat on the outskirts of town. The work was demanding and grew harder each day.
One morning, as I was getting ready for work, a sharp pain ripped through my abdomen and lower back.
It cant be its too early, I whispered, but the baby was already pushing for birth.
It happened so fast I couldnt even react. Within a couple of hours I was holding a newborn boy in my arms. He whimpered a little, then fell asleep as if he understood that any noise would only upset his mother.
Even though Im a vet, I knew how to handle a home birth, so I didnt call an ambulance. I lay on the bed with my son swaddled beside me, trying desperately to feed him or even just hold him longer, but my body wouldnt cooperate.
In the dead of night I awoke to find him still sleeping peacefully, wrapped in a soft blanket.
Sorry, I whispered to his tiny face, I cant do this.
I took off the silver cross that my grandmother had given me years ago, the one she claimed would keep me safe. Maybe it will protect you, I murmured, fastening it onto his tiny chest.
I felt sickened, yet I wasnt ready to give up. I bundled him into a blanket, pushed a shopping trolley into the nearest supermarket, placed him inside, and left without a second glance.
Back at the flat I packed a bag, headed for the train station, and within an hour I was on a carriage heading toward an unknown destination. All I wanted was distancefrom the memories, from the pain, from the nightmare.
Ten years later.
I have achieved almost everything I dreamed of. Ive been married for six years, run my own veterinary practice, and the life seems pictureperfect, except for one glaring omission: I still cannot have a child of my own.
Its fate, I tell myself, karma for the mistakes of my past.
One evening I returned home to find my husband, Daniel, sitting at the kitchen table, his face drawn.
Len, whats wrong? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Its happened, he said quietly. I should have told you sooner. Its not what you think. He sighed. Theres another woman.
My heart pounded. What else? I forced my voice to stay calm.
Im leaving her. Shes pregnant.
I stared at him, the words sinking like ice. Well, go then. Youve always been an honest man, I managed, though inside I felt a cold satisfaction that maybe this was what I deserved.
As Daniel packed, I thought about how fate was punishing me for the choices I once made. No matter how hard I tried, I couldnt bear another child, and that felt like the ultimate retribution for having once been given a chance to be a motheronly to throw it away in such a cruel way.
My husband, the one Id loved, walked out. It hurt, it infuriated me, but I am an adult now; I can look after myself. And what of the child I abandoned in that supermarket trolley? A lone, helpless infant, left behind
The sound of a closing door pulled me from my thoughts. Mrs. Whitaker, you have your first appointment at nine, the receptionist called, also acting as my assistant.
Yes, Marjorie, thank you. Ill change and be ready, I replied.
A few minutes later I entered a bright, spacious consulting room where a man stood holding a cat. A small boy was beside him, gently stroking the frightened animal.
Timothy, well take care of you, right, dad? the boy asked.
Mark, lets show him to the vet first. Im Ian, and this is your patient. The man introduced himself.
I took the cat from him and began my examination.
This cat has been with us for years. My late wife rescued him from the street, and ever since shes gone, I cant bear to be without him. Hes become listless, hasnt moved or played for two days. Hes old, but please help him.
I started to speak when the cat bolted, sprinting around the room, yowling. He circled the table, dove under it and hissed whenever I approached.
Let me try, the boy offered, slipping under the table and scooping the cat back into his arms. In the process, a silver cross fell from under his shirtthe same one I had once left with my son.
Look! Timothys fine now, the boy shouted, delighted.
I listened to their chatter, but the phrase This cant be happening echoed in my mind.
Mark, could you stay in the waiting area with Marjorie while I talk to your dad about keeping Timothy active and preventing laziness? I asked, turning to the assistant.
When everyone left, I faced the man, struggling to find the right words.
I I once I began, then stopped.
Youre pale, Mrs. Whitaker. Are you alright? he asked, concern in his voice.
Im fine, I managed. Hes fine. I understand now.
Im not talking about the cat, I said quickly, then, Where did you get that cross, Ian?
Excuse me? he replied, puzzled.
I found myself spilling the whole storyhow the man had forced me into his car, how I fled my abusive home, the pregnancy, the baby I could never keep, and the cross Id given him. I said everything, leaving no detail untouched.
He listened in silence. When I finished, he stared at a point on the wall for what felt like ten minutes.
My wife and I tried for six years without success, he finally said. Doctors told us it was hopeless, so we adopted a child. We went to a childrens home and met our son, Gregory. He was three, full of life, and we fell in love instantly. Hes my son now. Last year my wife died, and we kept that secret from Gregory. He doesnt know hes adopted.
He continued, Im not trying to claim anything. I made a terrible choice, and Ive lived with the guilt ever since. I never expected to meet you again, to feel any connection to that boy again. Youre righthes a wonderful child, but hes not mine.
A heavy silence fell over the room. From the closed door I could hear Gregorys laughter, and tears slipped down my cheeks.
I know you cant pretend nothing happened today, he said gently. And I cant either. Youre welcome to see him whenever you wish, if you want.
My eyes, already wet, searched his face. May I?
Yes. Timothy would be happy to have his own doctor. Come by whenever you like.
What about tomorrow? I asked after a pause, my voice trembling with gratitude. Ive lost so much time. I need to make up for it.
Two years later.
Gregory introduced Timothy to his little sister, while Ian and I watched our children with quiet pride. The years have taught me that pain can coexist with moments of unexpected tenderness, and that even the darkest chapters can, somehow, lead to a new kind of belonging.
