The Unwanted Child

Andrea lay on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mind was blank. Outside, the sound of children’s laughter floated through the window. To most, it would have been light and comforting—but to Andrea, it was cruel. A reminder of something she didn’t want, wasn’t ready for. She rose, pacing the room with trembling hands. She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t seen a doctor. She didn’t want to hear from anyone else what she already knew—that a life was growing inside her. To her, it wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. Slowly, she struck her belly. Once. Twice. Again and again, until her arms gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, clutching herself as pain rippled through her body. “I don’t want you… I don’t want you…” she whispered, tears burning down her cheeks. That night, she curled into the sheets, silent but raging inside. She didn’t know how long she could endure it—but she knew one thing: she would do anything to stop that life from taking root. When she finally looked in the mirror, she no longer recognized herself. She wasn’t Andrea anymore. She was someone carrying a secret too heavy to face. Months passed. Her belly swelled, but her mother was the only one who stayed by her side. Despite her pleas, Andrea refused checkups, refused vitamins—sometimes even sneaking alcohol behind her mother’s back. And then, one morning, little Sofia was born. The ward buzzed with noise and antiseptic, the sharp scent of milk faint in the air. A newborn’s cries pierced through the room, thin and desperate. A nurse approached, carrying a baby wrapped in a threadbare blanket. “Ma’am Andrea,” she said softly, “your baby needs to feed. She won’t stop crying.” Andrea sat against the headboard, silent. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She turned away when the nurse offered the child. It was Aling Maria, her mother, who stepped forward. “Give her to me.” She took the baby into her arms, smiling faintly through her worry. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered to her granddaughter, brushing a finger across her tiny cheek. The nurse returned moments later with a donated bottle of milk. Maria accepted it and pressed it gently to the baby’s lips. The child latched hungrily, sucking as though her life depended on it. “Like you haven’t eaten in days,” Maria murmured, stroking her granddaughter’s hair-fine nails. Andrea, meanwhile, sat unmoving—her back turned, her eyes empty. Maria sighed. She remembered her daughter’s laughter once, the light in her eyes. That girl was gone. In her place sat someone broken, unreachable. When the baby finished, Maria lifted her to her shoulder. A soft burp escaped, and relief washed over her face. “That’s it, little one.” But as she looked around Andrea’s bed, her heart sank. No baby clothes. No blankets. Nothing had been prepared. It wasn’t just poverty—Maria knew. It was indifference. The next day, Andrea’s brother came with a bag of hand-me-down onesies, bonnets, and diapers. They weren’t new, but they were clean, and they would have to do. From then on, Maria took over. She bathed the baby, fed her, lulled her to sleep. Andrea stayed distant, watching only from afar. “Dear,” Maria whispered one evening, “I know this is hard. But she’s yours. She needs you.” Andrea glanced at her briefly before turning away. Through the window, the sky bled orange and gray as the sun sank. Inside, the baby breathed softly in her grandmother’s arms—warm, full, finally asleep. Maria stayed beside her, silent and heavy with worry. She didn’t know when, or if, her daughter’s heart would change. But Andrea, lying in bed, shut her eyes. And in the darkness, her newborn’s cries blended with another memory—rough hands, alcohol, and a voice that whispered threats she could never forget. Her fists clenched against the sheets. The past clawed at her chest, dragging her back to the night everything inside her broke.