I pushed through wave after wave of agony.
Sweat soaked my hair. Stinging my eyes.
My throat burned from silent screams I couldn’t release.
I prayed—desperately—that this child would survive.
That despite starvation. Despite beatings. Despite infection. Despite everything—
It would be strong enough to break through the cruelty surrounding its birth.
Then, after hours that felt like eternity, the baby slipped free.
For one fractured second—
One perfect, suspended moment—
I felt overwhelming relief.
Joy surged through me so violently it almost knocked the pain away.
I thought maybe darkness hadn’t won completely.
Maybe something good had survived inside that prison.
Maybe I still had something worth fighting for.
Then I saw the nurses’ faces.
Blank. Emotionless. Almost bored.
One of them glanced down and adjusted her gloves casually.
“It’s a stillborn,” she said flatly.
As if announcing the weather.
As if it were routine.
Stillborn.
The word detonated inside my chest. It lodged there like shrapnel.
I couldn’t scream.
My voice had already been taken months before.
But the pain ripped upward anyway—raw, primal, tearing through me until I thought my ribs might crack from the force of it.
I turned my head desperately.
Trying to see. Trying to confirm.
They were wrapping the tiny body in a stained towel.
Blue lips. Motionless limbs. No cry. No breath. Just silence.
My baby. My child.
