Hidden Under the Rain

Chapter 10: The Room with Three Walls

The room I rented cost four hundred yuan a month.

It was in an old building at the edge of town, the kind of place where the paint peeled off the walls like dead skin and the stairs creaked even when no one was walking on them.

The room was small. Smaller than small.

The bed touched three walls. The fourth wall had a window that faced a brick wall two feet away. No sunlight ever came in.

But there was a lock on the door. And the landlord didn't ask questions.

I set my suitcase on the bed—the only place it would fit—and sat down next to it.

The mattress was thin. I could feel the springs poking through.

This is my life now, I thought.

I found work online. Document editing. Proofreading. Data entry. Whatever I could get. The pay was terrible—sometimes less than minimum wage—but I could do it from the room. I didn't have to see anyone. I didn't have to explain anything.

I worked from sunrise to midnight. My back ached. My eyes burned. My fingers cramped from typing.

But I didn't stop.

Because every time I wanted to stop, I would press my hand against my belly and remember.

I wasn't working for me anymore.

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The first trimester was the hardest.

The morning sickness was a lie—it lasted all day. I threw up so many times I lost count. My teeth started hurting from the stomach acid.

I couldn't afford prenatal vitamins. I ate instant noodles and white rice and whatever vegetables were on sale at the supermarket at nine o'clock at night.

Sometimes I would stand in front of the mirror and lift my shirt, staring at my flat stomach.

Are you really in there? I would whisper.

No one answered.

But I kept talking anyway. I told my belly about my day. About the stupid emails I had to edit. About the landlord's cat that meowed outside my window every morning. About the old woman downstairs who hung her laundry on the fire escape and sang opera songs off-key.

I wanted the baby to know my voice.

I wanted the baby to know it wasn't alone.

Because I knew what it felt like to be alone.

And I had promised myself—on that bathroom floor, in that empty apartment, with the rain still falling outside—that my child would never feel that way.

Not if I could help it.