Our Story

My Angel

When I was eighteen, I found out I was pregnant. Kiko was the father—the boy I thought would stay. But the second I told him, he vanished. No call, no note—just gone.

My family exploded. My dad yelled that I’d shamed them. My mom sobbed into her hands. “How could you be so careless?” they’d say, over and over. “What will people think?”

I was terrified, but also… a little hopeful. Even without Kiko, I started to imagine it: a tiny hand in mine, a laugh that sounded like mine. I’d touch my stomach gently every night, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be okay.”

Then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, it started. A dull ache in my lower stomach—like cramps, but worse. I thought it was just normal, that the baby was moving. I tried to ignore it, to go about my day. But as the hours passed, the pain got sharper. It felt like someone was twisting a knife inside me, over and over.

I curled up on my bed, sweating and crying. My mom found me there in the evening, my face pale as a ghost. “Anak, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice tight with fear.

“The pain… it won’t stop,” I gasped. “I’m scared. Is the baby okay?”

That’s when she rushed me to the hospital. We waited for hours in the emergency room, me writhing in pain, her holding my hand so tight it hurt. When the doctor finally saw me, he did an ultrasound and his face fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “The baby’s heart isn’t beating anymore. The pain you’re feeling is because the pregnancy is failing—we need to do a procedure right away to remove the fetus, or it could cause serious harm to you.”

I broke down. Tears streamed down my face as they wheeled me to the operating room. All I could think was: This wasn’t supposed to happen. I touched my stomach this morning, I talked to him… why did he have to go?

When I woke up, my dad was standing in the corner. “This is all your fault,” he said, his voice cold. “If you’d been more careful—”

“Stop!” I screamed, my throat raw. “I didn’t mean to lose him! I didn’t want this! The pain started so slow, I thought it was nothing… I tried to keep him safe! I lost my baby too—I’m hurting just as much as you are! So why are you blaming me?”

My dad went quiet. My mom started crying again, but this time, she sat next to me and held my hand. No one said anything else. But the words hung in the air—why blame me?—and they’ve stayed with me ever since.

Years later, I still hear that question in my head. Every time I see a child the age mine would have been, every time someone asks why I don’t have kids. I finished school, got a job, made a life for myself—but there’s a hole in my chest that will never fill.

I keep a small, faded blanket in a box under my bed—one I’d bought before the pain started. Every night, I hold it and whisper: “I didn’t mean to lose you, my love. I’m sorry the pain got so bad. I’m sorry they blamed me. I’m sorry we both had to hurt this much.”

I still don’t have the answer to that question. Why do people blame the one who’s already lost everything? All I know is that I lost my baby, and that pain—both in my stomach and in my heart—is mine to carry—without anyone making me feel like it’s my fault.