TALE OF ALEXIA

Life has a cruel way of choosing its favorites. Some are cradled by fate, their steps guided along paths of gold. Others are tossed into the tempest, battered by the winds of circumstance. Florra never imagined she’d be among the latter. But as the storm clouds of her life gathered, their weight pressed down—thicker, darker, closer with every breath. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand. The hospital room blurred around her—white walls, blinking monitors, the hum of machines fading into silence. All Florra felt was the fragile weight in her arms. Alexia. Her newborn daughter. So small. So innocent. The only anchor keeping her from spiraling into the chaos that had become her life. She stared at the baby’s peaceful face, her chest tightening with emotions too tangled to name—love, disbelief, fear. This was supposed to be the happiest moment of her life. Instead, it felt like a dream teetering on the edge of a nightmare. She had imagined soft whispers, gentle kisses, arms wrapped around them both. Instead, there was only silence. Thick with betrayal. How could something so pure be rejected so easily? She had imagined him there—Princewill—standing beside her, strong arms cradling mother and child, voice steady with promises of forever. But reality twisted the dream into something grotesque. He stood across the room, a cold, unreadable expression carved into his features. His eyes, once warm, now held only contempt. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stared, as if Florra were a stranger—no, an inconvenience. In that moment, she saw the truth: The man she loved was gone. In his place stood a stranger. A stranger capable of anything. "You disgust me, Florra," he spat, each word laced with venom. The hospital lights flickered above, casting fleeting shadows on his face. But there was no flicker of doubt in his eyes—only cold, merciless disdain. He didn’t glance at the baby. Not once. His stare bored into her like a blade. “You think I’d father a child with you?” His lips curled into a sneer. “You must be delusional.” For a heartbeat, the world stopped spinning. The warmth of her daughter suddenly felt like fire—because now, she was standing on scorched earth. This wasn’t just rejection. It was erasure. Florra’s heart didn’t just break—it imploded. The man she once whispered dreams with under starlit skies now stood before her cruel and unfamiliar. She searched his face for a flicker of the Princewill she loved. Nothing. Just a mask of bitterness. The sting of rejection burned through every memory they’d shared. He was tearing something out of her—a piece of her soul she hadn’t realized she’d given away. Then he turned. Without hesitation. Without remorse. “I’m not responsible for that child,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve never had anything to do with her.” He didn’t look back. The words struck like a series of brutal blows. Her knees weakened. It wasn’t just abandonment—it was denial. A complete erasure of everything they had, everything she endured for nine months, and everything Alexia now represented. The baby stirred softly in her arms, a tiny sound in the silence. And Florra knew. She was on her own. But she wasn’t alone. She had Alexia. And she would fight. Her parents stood by the door, helpless. Her mother’s face pale, her father’s lips drawn in a trembling line. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Yet the silence between them thundered through the room. It wrapped around Florra’s chest like a vice. She felt their sympathy in the way her mother’s hands twisted together. In the way her father’s eyes followed Princewill’s retreating figure with restrained fury. But it didn’t comfort her. It crushed her. Because pity made her feel small. Fragile. Broken. And she didn’t want to be any of those things. Florra turned her face away, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the sob clawing up her throat. She rocked Alexia gently, blocking out the heat of her parents’ stares. She wouldn’t cry—not again. She couldn’t afford to. Not now. Not when everything had already fallen apart. Not when she needed to be stronger than she’d ever been. Because if the world saw weakness in her now… it would devour her. His mother’s words echoed like poison: “We cannot allow this distraction. Princewill has a future ahead. He can’t be tied down by... this scandal.” That sentence repeated like a curse. Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving. His mother’s voice had been soft, controlled, but her eyes burned with judgment. As though Florra had tainted their world by simply existing. “This will ruin everything we’ve planned,” she’d said, shaking her head. “Do you realize what this means for Princewill’s career? Do you know how much we’ve sacrificed to get him here? And now you want to drag him down with a child?” A child. As though Alexia was a disease. Not a life. Princewill hadn’t defended her. Not once. He sat silently, jaw clenched, gaze avoiding hers. Florra searched for a flicker of the man who once made promises under the moonlight. There was nothing. Just a coward in love’s clothing. When his mother finished, Princewill delivered the final blow. “We’re done, Florra. I’m not going to ruin my future over a mistake.” A mistake. The world didn’t collapse with a bang. It crumbled slowly. She had left that house with her heart in pieces. Now, holding her daughter, she let those memories return—not to haunt her, but to ignite her. They didn’t just reject her. They tried to erase her. But they forgot something: Florra was not weak. Wounded, yes—but not broken. Wounds, when healed, became scars. She looked down at Alexia, her tiny fingers curled around Florra’s thumb. She had no more tears for Princewill. No more space for regret. He walked away. He spat cruel words. He turned his back on his own blood. But Florra would rise. Not in spite of him, but because he believed she wouldn’t. He and his family cast her out. That rejection would become her fuel. She would not be a scandal. She would be a story. A story of survival. Of strength. Of a mother’s unyielding love. The days that followed blurred—exhaustion, silent crying, sleepless nights. Her parents helped where they could. But she knew the truth: she was alone in this. It was up to her to give Alexia a life of love, not rejection. One night, holding Alexia close, she made a vow. She wouldn’t be a victim. She wouldn’t let this define her. She would rise—for Alexia. Weeks later, she stood at the doorway of her new apartment. Small. Cramped. But hers. With the money her parents gave, she paid the first month’s rent. The apartment smelled of mildew and dust, paint chipped, walls faded. It was a start. “I can do this,” she whispered. “I will do this.” But fear churned in her stomach. Promises were easy. Keeping them was harder. The loneliness at night was worst. She’d sit by the window, moonlight casting shadows, listening to the quiet streets. Her apartment felt too big, too empty, even with Alexia’s soft breathing. One night, she picked up an old knitting kit her mother gave her. Fingers fumbling, she began to knit. Yarn slipping through her hands. A rhythm. A purpose. She wasn’t just creating a blanket. She was creating a future. Each stitch wove strength back into her. Florra’s knitting business grew slowly. Neighbors who once whispered now came for scarves, baby caps, blankets. She didn’t know much about business—but she was learning. The money wasn’t much, but it fed Alexia. Paid the bills. Kept a roof overhead. One evening, holding Alexia as she slept, Florra realized: The pain remained. But it no longer consumed her. She found strength in quiet moments. In caring. In surviving. Princewill’s absence no longer defined her. She had something stronger: Love. Unyielding. Fierce. Eternal. This was the beginning of her journey. Alexia’s story.