The room was cold.
Not freezing, just that sterile kind of cold only hospitals and clinics seem to have. My fingers tugged at the corners of the paper gown they gave me, even though it barely covered the part of me I now hated the most—my stomach.
Four months.
That's how far along I was.
I could feel her. Not in the kicking or rolling way they describe in books, but in the way my body had already started giving itself up for her. In the way I couldn't look in the mirror without seeing a stranger. In the way my back ached, my bladder shrank, my skin stretched.
Noah sat in the corner of the room on his phone, one leg crossed over the other, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up like he was at a business meeting and not waiting to hear the gender of his child.
The technician smiled at me when she entered. Mid-40s maybe. Kind face. That didn't help.
"Hi, Layla. Let's take a look at your baby, shall we?"
She pressed warm gel on my belly, then rolled the wand over it gently. The screen lit up in fuzzy gray and white.
I looked away.
I didn't want to see it.
I didn't want to feel whatever it would make me feel.
Please, I begged inside my own head. Please let it be a boy. Please. Please. Please.
I repeated it like a mantra. My chest started to tighten.
I couldn't raise a girl in this world.
Not in this life.
Not in this house.
Not with him.
Not with me like this—so broken I could barely stand up straight in the morning.
The wand moved slowly across my skin. The tech smiled at the screen.
"There's your baby's heartbeat… beautiful. And right there—there's the spine. Everything looks healthy."
She paused.
The world felt like it held its breath with me.
"And… looks like you're having a little girl."
Silence.
I didn't blink. I didn't move. I just stared up at the ceiling, my body frozen under the sound of those words.
A girl.
It rang in my head like a sentence.
Noah leaned forward, finally pocketing his phone.
"A girl, huh?"
He smiled lightly.
"I was kind of hoping for a boy. But she'll be daddy's girl, I guess."
The tech laughed. I didn't. I couldn't.
I think I whispered, thank you, but I don't remember if I actually said it or just thought it.
My hands were trembling when I wiped the gel off.
The car ride home was quiet. Noah hummed along to the radio, one hand on the steering wheel, the other texting at red lights. I sat motionless, my arms wrapped around my belly like it might keep me from falling apart completely.
"My mom's gonna be thrilled," he said. "She always wanted a granddaughter."
I didn't answer.
"We'll throw a little party this weekend. Nothing big. Just close family."
Still nothing from me.
He glanced at me sideways.
"You okay?"
I nodded.
A lie so smooth it didn't even make a sound.
The party was held in our living room three days later.
Someone hung pink balloons and a little sign that said "It's a Girl!" above the dining table. There were platters of food, sugary pink cupcakes, and everyone pretending to be overjoyed. Noah's mother kissed my cheek. His sister rubbed my belly without asking.
"You'll be such a sweet little mama," she said, eyes twinkling.
I smiled back, because that's what I was trained to do. Smile. Nod. Stay quiet.
Inside, I was screaming.
Inside, I was falling apart.
Everyone danced. Everyone laughed.
And I stood at the edge of the room, barely holding on.
I didn't speak. I didn't eat. I didn't sit down. I just floated. A ghost in my own life.
I thought about her—my daughter.
About the day she would turn thirteen.
About the day they'd tell her she wasn't allowed to go out.
The day they'd start picking husbands for her.
The day she'd be sitting in my place, in a paper gown, hoping she wasn't having a girl either.
That was the night I knew. I knew.
If I stayed, I'd ruin her.
I'd hand her over to the same system that broke me.
But if I left…
I didn't know how.
I didn't know where.
But this time—I wouldn't fail.
Because now, I had no choice.
I wouldn't let her become me.
I couldn't.