PIECE OF ME

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

CHAPTER 4

I woke up disoriented. The world moved too slow—tiny flickers of the ceiling fan overhead, a dull ache behind my eyes, and the hum of hospital life. The smell was familiar: bleach, iron, and something faintly like fear. My arm was heavy with an IV needle. Every breath felt jagged. My abdomen throbbed. The first thought that came was: My dad. Then Daniel. Then the baby. None of them were here.

I tried to move, but panic coming down my spine was stronger than any motion. I swallowed, tasted metallic air. Quiet-bossy voices came from the hallway outside my curtain. I tried to sit, but dizziness crashed into me. I closed my eyes, turned my head to silence.

Later, a doctor came. He was calmer than I felt.

“Uche, how are you feeling?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. My throat was dry. My fingers clenched the bed sheet.

He paused, looked at my file, and then looked at me again. No pity. Just information.

“Your condition is serious. The pregnancy is ectopic. You’re still early, which is good. But we must do surgery soon. This can kill you.”

Fear clawed at me. I blinked. Staring at the floor helped me breathe.

“We need someone here with you. A family member, your partner, or a caregiver. Someone needs to understand what’s going on.”

Alone. That word resonated in me like a glass breaking.

The doctor stepped back. I stared at nothing. I kissed the pain in my belly and tried to memorize its shape.

I asked the nurse later. “Can someone stay?”

Silence. She didn’t answer like she didn’t know what to say.

I tried Daniel once more. On my third call, he finally answered.

“Uche, don’t…” His voice faded.

“I’m in the hospital.”

Silence.

“Why should I care?”

My breath lodged in my throat.

“Daniel…” I wanted to beg. Instead, I said, “Why, Daniel?”

He laughed. Cold.

“You ghosted me, damaged me, pinned babies on me. I saved my money. I sent ₦5,000 for food. Chill. Make it make sense.”

Abandoned isn’t loud. It’s saying let me fend for myself. His next words:

“You don’t belong here. Find the real father.”

I told the doctor later. He looked away.

Steph. My best friend. My mirror. My person.

I called her. Texted her. Nothing.

I sent messages thick with heartbreak wrapped in camouflage politeness.

Still nothing.

Isaac came that night. A church member who only knew me because of my parents’ involvement. He stayed quiet. Didn’t say he felt sorry, didn’t mention the funeral simmering outside these walls. He brought soup—warm, smoky spices—set it on my bedside table. I stared at it as though it might betray me.

“Just in case you want to eat.” His voice was soft, distant.

I took a bite. Warm specks of swallow wetting my tongue. He hovered.

“Call me if you need.”

I buried my stare in the plate. He looked starved to say so much more, but he didn’t.

In the nights, I wondered if I could trust his silence.

A nurse came in. She adjusted the monitors. She looked at the chart. Then at me.

“Your emergency contact pulled out.”

My throat constricted. “Daniel?”

She nodded. “He said he’d like to be removed.”

How did he know I was here? Before I did?

“Did someone else call?”

She hesitated. “He said please take it off.”

I blinked. She moved on. But I couldn’t.

I tried calling Steph again. The unanswered message stared back at me like a scream. I didn’t cry. Not even a tear. Just that aching dark.

At night, shadows lengthened beyond the curtain. I lay there, listening to drips from my IV, heartbeat in my throat. Grief for my father dripped down my spine. Shame for being left alone. Fear for what the surgery might do. Every element pounded me until I didn’t know how I hadn’t already crumbled.

Confusion, betrayal, and pain.

All of it blended until I was numb.

Then there was a knock. Just one. Then voices. Quiet. Like they thought no one heard.

“He asked for the files again.” Doctor’s voice. Clinical, tired.

“His? Is this about who pulls the file?” Another voice, stat.

“Her, the case.” The doctor sounded off-guard.

“She’s not viable? The file doesn’t add up.”

Doesn’t add up.

I sank deeper, every nerve firing in disbelief.

Then another voice. Male. Familiar, but I couldn’t name it.

“If she dies, it’s on him.”

The door creaked and closed. Silence swallowed.

I lay there, breath stuck in my chest.

If she dies… these words rolled over me like a promise. A threat.

My eyelids felt heavy. Everything got too bright and nothing made sense. I couldn’t stay conscious, but I didn’t want to sleep either—sleep meant absence, though maybe absence would be easier than today.

The corridor went quiet after that voice. My pulse beat loud in my ears, refusing to settle. I tried to push myself up, but the IV tugged at my skin.

Through the glass panel on the door, I caught a shadow. A man’s silhouette—broad shoulders, still, almost waiting. I blinked, and it was gone.

I told myself I imagined it. But then, as I closed my eyes, my stomach clenched so hard I thought I’d collapse again. Somewhere behind the walls, I heard a phone buzz. A woman’s whisper followed:

“Tell him… she won’t last the night.”

My chest tightened. My eyes shot open. Who were they talking about—me? And why did it feel like everyone already knew how this would end except me?