Becoming Mercy

Becoming Mercy

“I’m pregnant.”

The words scraped out of me before I could stop them. My voice was barely above a whisper, but to me it sounded like a scream, like confession and betrayal twisted together.

Cleopas stared at me. His jaw moved once, then stilled.

“You’re… what?” he asked, blinking like the problem would disappear if he just squinted hard enough.

“I said I’m pregnant.” My palms were damp. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. This was the part where in my stupidity I imagined he would take my hands, tell me it would be okay, maybe even kiss my forehead like in the movies I pretended not to watch.

Instead, he laughed. Short. Sharp. Cruel.

“Mercy, you’re joking. Right?"

“I’m not.” My voice cracked. “I took the test this morning. Twice.”

He stepped backward as though the air around me had become toxic.

“You can’t keep it,” he muttered. “No. No, absolutely not.”

My glasses fogged with heat and I wiped them with trembling fingers. “What do you mean I can’t keep it?”

“I mean I can’t help you,” Cleopas said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I can’t do anything about this. And I’m not marrying you.”

My stomach clenched. “I didn’t ask you to marry me,” I said, even though deep inside, a foolish part of me had hoped, hoped beyond hope, that maybe just maybe, he would.

“Well good,” he snapped. “Because I’m not. I don’t need that kind of problem.”

I swallowed hard. “Problem.”

“Yes, Mercy. Problem. You come from nothing. Your parents have nothing. And you…” his eyes swept across me my round cheeks, my soft belly, my glasses perched on my too wide nose. “You’re not exactly the type of girl someone like me marries. Hell you are not something anyone would marry.”

Heat burned down my throat, thick and humiliating.

“And what exactly is that type?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. I was chubby, diabetic, broke, and not shiny or special in any way. I didn’t sparkle in a room, I hid in corners and hoped no one stared long enough to notice me.

Cleopas looked away. “Just… get rid of it.”

“No.”

His head snapped back toward me.

“No?” he echoed, disbelief twisting his face. “You’re keeping it? Mercy, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid.” Something fragile inside me shook, but it didn’t break. “It’s my baby.”

“Yes if you want to keep it it's your problem,” he corrected.

I wished the ground would open and swallow me whole. But it didn’t. The universe just let me stand there with shaking hands and a heart that felt too big for my chest.

For a brief second, I remembered how I had believed he loved me or could learn to love me. How I imagined I’d finally found someone who could tolerate me and my incompetences, my panic attacks, my pills, my slow mornings and trembling afternoons. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have admirers. I had him. And I thought that counted for something.

It didn’t.

“Mercy,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing toward the door of the café. “My friends are outside. Do not make a scene.”

The door swung open before I could speak. Three boys his university boys crowded in with laughter that died the moment they looked at us.

“She told me she’s pregnant,” Cleopas announced, as if sharing a joke.

Their faces twisted into mockery so familiar it felt like a hand pressing against old bruises.

“Impossible,” one snorted. “She was just a bet, man. It lasted long though. A year you are the man.”

“A bet?” My breath caught.

Cleopas flinched but didn’t deny it.

“You were never serious,” the other added. “We told him he wouldn’t survive chubby girlfriend phase.”

They laughed.

Chubby girlfriend.

Bet gone wrong.

I felt something inside me crumble violently. I was just a bet

I walked out before they could say more, before my humiliation boiled over and drowned me. I didn’t look back.

Mom’s face folded into something sharp when I told her. Dad didn’t bother hiding his disgust.

“You’re adopted, Mercy,” Mom said coldly, as if she were offering information and not a blade. “Do you hear me? Adopted. We already sacrificed enough for you.”

Dad nodded. “We can’t raise a bastard child on top of that.”

“I wasn’t asking you to raise it,” I whispered.

“Then leave,” Mom said.

Just like that.

I stood in the doorway with a single bag, my medication rattling inside, my glasses slipping down my nose, and a tiny life fluttering inside me too small to feel, too big to ignore.

The night was cold. I wrapped my arms around myself as though I could create warmth out of nothing.

Unwanted. Unclaimed. Cast out.

The rain started slow, like the sky was testing its cruelty, then it turned violent slapping against the pavement, against my skin, against everything I carried. My hair clung to my cheeks, and my glasses blurred until I gave up wiping them. IMy vision without them was blurry. It was better I kept them on.

I kept walking because stopping meant thinking, and thinking hurt more than the cold.

By the time I reached the bridge, my clothes were soaked through and my shoes squelched with every step. The underside of the bridge offered half a promise of shelter, and I took it. I dropped my bag and pulled my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, as if disappearance could fix my life.

The wind hissed through the concrete, howling like it had something to say to me, about me about girls who loved wrong, hoped wrong, and ended up alone expecting a baby nobody wanted.

My fingers traced the outline of my flat belly. Fear crawling in. Fear had moved in without asking.

I thought about hospitals. About adoption. About disappearing into some other town where no one knew Mercy the girl who was a bet, who was a disappointment, who was a bastard raising another bastard.

My blood sugar started to dip. I couldn't remember when last I had eaten, I could feel the familiar dizziness creeping up my neck, crawling behind my eyes. I fished out a small piece of candy from my bag, emergency sugar and let it dissolve on my tongue. It wasn’t enough, but it would keep me from fainting.

The rain thundered on, relentless. I shivered harder.

For a moment, I wondered if my parents had watched from the window. If they felt anything, regret or relief. I wondered if Cleopas was still laughing with his friends, telling them how the chubby girl with the glasses refused to abort.

I cried until my throat burned. No loud sobs, just silent tears that tasted like metal and rain. I wondered if my baby would become a replica of me. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed to God and all the stars to align my child's fate with better things than mine. But if I got a chance. I looked back to the city lights and vowed that the next time I will step into the city. I will be a different girl. And the baby I was carrying will have a better fighting chance than I had.

I must have dozed off, or slipped into that dazed space between panic and exhaustion, because I didn’t notice the headlights at first. Not until they swept across the wet concrete, bright and searching.

A car slowed, tires crunching through puddles. The door opened with a heavy thud.

Footsteps.

I tensed. My heart stumbled and not in the hopeful way.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away.

“You’re going to freeze out here,” a man’s voice, steady but curious.

I looked up through rain smeared glasses, too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I have nowhere else to go,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched, thick with decision.

Then,

“Come on,” he said at last. “Get in. I’m taking you home.” I didn't have the luxury of caution. Even in my fear I accepted his offer. For now anything else was better than the bridge as shelter. I stood and took a step towards a future I wasn't sure of.

And just like that, my night changed course.

As I watched the city lights fade behind me, I knew I would come back a very different girl.

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