Chapter 3
1023 Words
Amara turned twenty-nine on a Tuesday.
There was no celebration, no surprise party, no balloons, no voices rising to sing her name. Just a quiet dinner Ethan had reserved at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, the kind where the lighting was dim and conversations stayed carefully measured.
He wore a tailored suit. She wore a dress she had bought two months earlier, saving it for a moment she had hoped would mean something more.
“To us,” Ethan said, lifting his glass.
“To us,” Amara echoed.
She smiled. She always did.
But somewhere deep in her chest, something was ticking.
Dessert arrived with a single candle flickering on top.
“Happy birthday,” the waiter said warmly.
Amara thanked him, leaned forward, and blew out the flame. She closed her eyes, not to make a wish, but to steady herself.
Ethan watched her. “Did you wish for anything?”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “Time.”
He laughed softly, assuming it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
Two days later, Amara went home.
Not to Ethan’s apartment.
To her mother’s house.
The moment she walked through the door, the assessment began.
Her mother’s eyes traveled slowly, from her face to her waist, then down to her hands, like she was checking for evidence of progress. Her aunt sat by the window, lips pursed, watching with thinly veiled judgment.
“You’re glowing,” her aunt said. “Or maybe that’s just makeup.”
Amara forced a smile. “It’s moisturizer.”
Her mother poured tea, setting the cup down with a little too much force. “You’re not getting any younger, Amara.”
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
“I know,” Amara replied quietly.
Her cousin entered the room then, one hand resting proudly on her swollen belly, the other holding a toddler by the wrist.
“Guess what?” she announced cheerfully.
“Another boy!”
Applause filled the room.
Amara’s throat tightened.
Later, alone in the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Same face. Same body. But behind her eyes lived a weariness that came from waiting too long for promises to catch up.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from her aunt:
At your age, hope should already have a name.
Amara sank onto the edge of the bathtub and cried silently, biting down on her knuckle so no one would hear.
That night, she called Ethan.
“I feel like I’m running out of time,” she said.
“You’re not,” he replied immediately. “You’re still young.”
“For how long?” she asked. “Because my body doesn’t wait for your comfort.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I don’t want to rush marriage because of pressure,” Ethan said carefully. “I want it to be right.”
“I want it to happen,” she replied.
He sighed. “Amara….”
She ended the call before he could finish.
Lola came over the next afternoon.
She arrived loud and unapologetic, heels clicking against the floor, perfume heavy in the air. She took one look at Amara’s face and scoffed.
“Damn. Family again?”
Amara nodded. “They think I’m wasting my life.”
Lola dropped onto the couch. “Are you?”
The question sliced deeper than Amara expected.
“I’ve waited,” Amara said, voice trembling. “I’ve loved him. I’ve lost three pregnancies. I’ve done everything right.”
“And what do you have to show for it?” Lola asked bluntly.
Amara said nothing.
Lola leaned forward. “Men like Ethan don’t change because you cry. They change when they’re scared.”
“Scared of what?” Amara asked.
“Losing control,” Lola replied. “Losing you.”
“That’s manipulation.”
“That’s survival,” Lola shot back. “Society doesn’t reward patient women. It replaces them.”
Amara stood abruptly. “I won’t lie to him.”
Lola raised an eyebrow. “You already lie every time you say you’re fine.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Two weeks later, Amara stood in her bathroom again, staring at another positive test.
Her fourth pregnancy.
This time, her hands didn’t shake with hope.
They shook with resolve.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile.
She called Ethan.
“I’m pregnant again.”
His voice tightened. “We need to talk.”
They met at his place.
He paced the living room. She sat on the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap.
“This can’t keep happening,” he said. “It’s destroying us.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“I don’t think I can go through another abortion,”
he added, rubbing his face.
Her heart pounded.
“So you want me to?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer.
She inhaled slowly.
“Something went wrong this time,” she said.
He froze. “What do you mean?”
Her voice trembled, but she continued.
“The doctors said there was severe damage.
They had to remove my womb.”
The lie fell into the room like shattered glass.
Ethan’s face drained of color.
“No,” he whispered. “That’s not possible.”
“I’ll never be able to have children,” Amara said, tears spilling now, real tears, fed by years of loss and fear. “I did this for you.”
Ethan collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
“I didn’t know,” he said brokenly. “I swear I didn’t know.”
She watched him unravel and felt something terrifying bloom in her chest.
Not relief.
Power.
Three days later, Ethan proposed.
He knelt in the living room, ring trembling in his hand, eyes filled with guilt and urgency.
“Marry me,” he said. “Let me make this right.”
Amara cried as she said yes.
But as he slid the ring onto her finger, a quiet thought whispered through her mind:
This is not love.
This is fear.
And fear, she would soon learn, always demands a price.
- Writer
