Selene Alvaroz’s POV
Two months later…
“You’re pregnant.”
The words pierce through me like a dagger, sharp and relentless. I stop breathing. The air in the small clinic room turns thick, suffocating. A sharp ringing fills my ears, drowning out everything but those two words.
I cling to the examination table, my fingers sinking into the creased paper beneath, seeking a fragile anchor amidst my turmoil. My stomach churns, my hands tremble uncontrollably. I struggle to steady my breath, yet the room persists in its dizzying spiral.
The doctor watches me carefully, her lips pressed into a firm line. Pity fills her eyes. She doesn’t understand. She can’t. This is a mistake.
“That…that cannot be true.” My voice echoes hollowly, distant and devoid of substance.
The doctor doesn’t flinch. “The blood test confirms it. You’re about eight weeks along.”
I shake my head vigorously, struggling to utter a word, yet they remain stuck. My throat constricts, a wave of panic surging up my spine. “I don’t even— I don’t know who—”
I don’t know his name. I don’t remember his face. Nothing. Just a shadow, a presence, a voice that told me I shouldn’t be there. My heart hammers so hard I think it might snap my ribs. I was pregnant with a stranger’s child. Or worse—a monster’s.
I push off the table, legs trembling beneath me. “I—I need to go.”
The doctor says something—maybe about prenatal care, maybe about options—but I don’t hear her. I’m already moving, shoving open the clinic door, and stepping into the cold hallway.
I crave fresh air, a break from this suffocating space. My heart yearns to return home, where safety once seemed guaranteed. I should feel safe there. I should walk through the door and hear my father’s voice. Yet my father's absence leaves a void, and our house stands as a hollow testament to my solitude, echoing with memories of better days.
And my mother?
She never fulfilled the role of a mother to me; her heart belongs to another family, distant and indifferent to my needs.For the last ten years, it was just Dad and me. And the moment she sees me standing there, ultrasound picture crumpled in my hand, I already know—this was a mistake.
Her face contorts, her lip curls up, her hands clench tightly into fists. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. She doesn’t ask anything.
“You’ve ruined yourself.”
Her words cut deeper than I anticipated, leaving a wound unseen yet felt.
I flinch involuntarily, whispering, “Mom…”
“Don’t.” The word snaps through the air like a whip.
I freeze. “Don’t you dare say my name like you deserve my pity.”
A hollow laugh bubbles from my throat. I yearn to confide in her. I ache to shout the stark reality—that my memories are a blank, that I awoke battered, shattered, drenched in my own blood, in an unfamiliar abyss. That I never wanted this. But I already know what she’ll say.
“Don’t ever come back here. You are not my daughter.”
The words strike me like a sudden blow. And then—the door slams. In an instant, my world is shattered; I am homeless.The weeks drag on, each one feeling like an eternity of suffering. And it didn’t stop there. The university expels me. My scholarships vanish overnight.
Friends? Gone.
One by one, they disappear, their silence louder than any words they could have said.
I am nothing now. No money. No home. No future. Just me. And a child I never asked for.
I was barely getting by, taking whatever jobs I could find—cleaning, serving, caregiving, just doing what I could to survive. The salary was just enough for necessities, I couldn’t even afford to get an ultrasound. I used to take care of Mr. Nelson, he was good to me and the twins. But he died a few months ago and I got laid off.
There are nights I lay in the dark, hand on my stomach, hating myself for wondering if I should hate the child inside me.
But I can’t. Because this baby is mine. The only thing I have left. And I will fight for it.
***
I was six months pregnant when the world ripped apart in the dead of night. Pain shoots through my body, intense and relentless. I gasp, doubling over in the tiny, damp apartment I rent by the week. The floor tilts. My vision blurs.
It’s too soon.
I scramble for my phone, fingers shaking so hard I almost drop it. The screen blurs as I dial 911.
The voice on the other end crackles, distant, as if it's coming from underwater. "Breathe," it says. "Stay calm." But my chest is tight, my breath shallow, and calm feels like a distant memory.
Another contraction hits—white-hot, searing. My legs tremble, and I collapse to the floor, the world spinning.
The hospital is a blur of frantic movement—flashing lights, shouting voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air. But none of it matters. Nothing matters but the pain.
It crashes over me in waves, relentless, pulling me under. I can't stop it. "Please," I whisper through clenched teeth. "Make it stop."
The doctors move quickly, their hands steady, their voices calm amid the chaos. But none of it reaches me. The pain is relentless, pressing down, unyielding.
It doesn’t stop.
A cry cuts through the noise. Tiny, fragile, yet alive. Another echo, louder, clearer, cutting through the chaos. My chest tightens, struggling for breath as the weight of the world bears down, suffocating me. I cling to the sound, trying to hold on.
“Twins,” someone says, their voice distant. I barely process the words. My body shakes with exhaustion, barely able to comprehend what’s happening.
Another contraction. Worse.
“There’s another one!”
I freeze, breath catching. Another? My heart slams against my ribs, panicked. No, that can’t be—
The pain crashes again, overwhelming. I push. I scream. And then—everything stops. The room is heavy with silence. A doctor turns toward me, their face taut with sorrow. Their lips move, but the words they say tear through me.
“I’m so sorry.”
The air leaves my lungs, leaving nothing in its wake.
“The third baby… he didn’t make it.”