When her mother found out, everything warm in the house turned cold.
The woman who had once held her hand through heartbreak now avoided her eyes. No more late-night gist. No more gentle teasing about her cooking. Cold glances. Tight lips. Silence. The kind of silence that doesn't only hang in the room but swallows it whole.
And it wasn't only disappointment. It was history repeating itself—her mother's history, a curse that refused to die. Teenage pregnancy. A man who vanished without looking back. Shame that turned a young girl into a single mother
Her mother wore those scars like invisible tattoos. Now, watching Bella repeat them, she pulled back in fear. It wasn't only anger—it was fear. Fear of watching her daughter drown in the same waters she once clawed her way out of.
Bella felt it pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. The house, once a refuge, now felt like a prison. Even the walls seemed to stare at her, whispering the same judgment her mother's lips were too tight to voice.
The world tilted—not because she didn't know how this happened. She did. She remembered every night, every kiss, every reckless moment that had led her here. But knowing didn't make it easier. The truth was heavy and sharp, and it cut her deeper each day.
Chris was back in Chicago, finishing his finals, living his campus life. She had her own attachment program to complete. He had been gone more than a month.
And Bella? Bella sat on the bathroom floor with her knees to her chest and trembling fingers. The faint lines stared back at her like a cruel prophecy. Proof of a new life she wasn't sure she had the strength to carry.
That night, her mother broke the silence.
"You can't keep this," she said, her face lit by the cold flicker of the television.
Bella's chest tightened. "But Mum…"
"You're in school. You have a future. What do you think will happen to you? To us? Do you want to carry a man's burden while he builds himself elsewhere?"
The words were arrows, hitting every vulnerable part of her. "Mum, it's not like that—"
Her mother's eyes flashed, wet with anger and grief. "Don't you dare defend him. You think I don't know? I've been here, Bella. Pregnant. Alone. Hoping he'd choose me. He didn't. They never do."
Bella's lips quivered. She wanted to scream that Chris was different. She wanted to say that he wasn't like her father or the nameless men her mother despised. But deep down, doubt crept in like smoke.
Chris.
She needed him. Not as a fantasy. Not as the sweet voice that lulled her into forgetting reality. She needed him as a partner. A man. A father.
When she finally told him over the phone, her hands trembled so hard she almost dropped it.
"Chris, I need to tell you something."
His voice was lazy, stretched with the comfort of being half a world away. "What's up, babe? You sound… weird."
She swallowed. "I'm pregnant."
Silence.
Then a low chuckle, almost disbelieving. "Wait—what? For real?"
"Yes."
"Wow… that's… that's big news." A grin laced his voice, the kind you hear before someone realizes this isn't a joke. "Wait. Are you serious?"
Bella's throat closed. His words didn't sound like a man who had been waiting to hear this. They sounded like a boy caught in headlights.
Hours later, he called again. This time his voice was softer. Serious. It was the longest call they'd had in weeks.
"I want what you want," he whispered. "Whatever you decide, I'll support it."
Bella closed her eyes. The words sounded noble, but to her, they tasted like escape. It wasn't support—it was him stepping back, handing her the entire weight, then saying, "Good luck, carry it alone."
That night, Bella lay in bed with vomit still bitter in her throat. She pressed her hands to her belly, whispering into the dark, "Why is it that when I need you, you disappear? If I hadn't called about the pregnancy, we wouldn't have even spoken this long."
Her chest burned with anger, and yet she still longed for him. That contradiction was the cruelest part.
The days ran together—nausea stealing her strength, cravings twisting her stomach. She had fevers, which left her shivering in bed.
Her mother noticed, of course. And one morning, she snapped.
"I won't watch you ruin yourself."
Bella's eyes widened. "Mum, don't—"
"We are going to the doctor."
The decision came before Bella could breathe. Before she could let her heart argue with her head. Before she could give the life inside her a voice.
The doctor spoke in clinical tones, words too clean for something so messy: "The pills. The process. The risks."
Bella felt like she was listening to someone else's story. Not hers.
And then it happened. The pills. The pain. The blood.
She thought she'd be numb. But she wasn't. She felt every cramp, every wave, every tear ripping her body apart.
She prayed—words trapped in her throat, heart pounding against heaven's silence. God, don't let me die here. Not like this.
Her mother hovered, torn between rage and fear, hands wringing, lips muttering prayers.
And when Bella almost collapsed on the bathroom tiles, her mother wailed. The sound tore through the house, summoning neighbors who rushed in, panic in their eyes.
Bella drifted in and out of consciousness. Her body was weak, her spirit weaker. And when it was finally over, when her body had emptied itself, silence followed.
A silence louder than screams.
Three days later, Chris called.
"Babe… I'm sorry." His voice was small, too small for the weight of what had happened. "I wanted to be there. My bank held my funds, my software crashed, and my team was on my neck. I didn't even know how to breathe."
Bella almost laughed. But the sound that left her throat was bitter. "You didn't know how to breathe, Chris? I was bleeding every night. Watching my body become a graveyard for a child I wanted to meet. And you couldn't even call?"
"Babe, don't do this. I tried—"
"You didn't try!" she snapped. Her voice broke, but it carried fire. "You vanished. You put everything—work, money, your plans—before me. And now, even before your child.
On the night of my abortion, I almost died. My mom wailed. People rushed in. I lay cold, half-conscious, praying to wake up—and you? Not a text. Not a call. Then a few days later you ring me like it's Monday morning at the office."
Silence.
She pictured him rubbing his temple, his favorite habit when guilt caught up.
"I can fix this," he whispered.
"No, Chris." Her voice steadied, iron in her tone. "You can't fix what you didn't bother to hold while it broke."
After the call, Bella stepped outside. The harmattan wind picked up, scattering dry leaves across the veranda. She hugged her arms around herself, staring at the pale sky.
Flashes of their college love in Chicago returned—the whispers in the dark and the laughter. The touches that made her believe in forever.
But forever had crumbled.
His kisses had been sweet. His touch was warm. His strokes had carved music into her skin.
Yet none of it mattered.
The void still had a name.
Abandonment.
And abandonment, she learned, doesn't scream. It doesn't slam doors or shatter windows. It sits beside you, breathing down your neck. It watches you bleed. It waits for the damage to finish. And then it whispers, "Too late."
Bella sank onto the veranda steps, eyes stinging, chest hollow. Somewhere in Chicago, Chris was probably at a party. Or buried in his books, or chasing dreams that didn't include her.
And she? She was here, her body aching, her heart shattered, her future rewritten.
She knew, finally, that the fairytale was dead.
And the worst part? She still loved him.
Her phone buzzed on the veranda beside her. She ignored it at first, too drained to care. But it wouldn't stop.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Annoyed, she picked it up, squinting at the caller ID.
Her heart froze.
Adrian.
For a moment, her chest forgot how to rise. Her thumb hovered over the screen. That name—she hadn't seen it in months. She had almost erased it, burying it under Chris's kisses and promises.
But Adrian was real. Adrian had been there before Spain, before Chris's final exams, before all this chaos. Adrian had been a mistake… or at least, that's what she kept telling herself.
Her pulse raced. Because she remembered. She remembered his hands. She remembered that night. She remembered she hadn't been careful.
And as the phone buzzed again, her throat went dry.
For the first time since the test showed two lines, a darker possibility stabbed her chest.
What if the baby wasn't Chris's?