The pawnshop receipt still crinkled in my hand when Noah and I walked toward the small wooden gate that led to Elizabeth's compound. The air was heavy with late March heat, and though I tried to hide it, a weight pressed down on me—not only from the child growing inside but from the choices that felt both necessary and humiliating. My mother's gold jewelry, once given with love, was now the price of survival.
Elizabeth, the landlord, greeted us at the porch. Her husband sat on a chair beside her, fanning himself with a newspaper, his eyes scanning us quietly.
"Good afternoon, Elizabeth," Noah said, his voice low and careful. "We came to discuss the rent, if that's alright."
Elizabeth's brows lifted slightly, though not unkindly. "Ah, yes. Come in. Sit down first. You both look tired."
I gave her a faint smile as I lowered myself carefully onto the wooden bench. My back ached, and the baby shifted within me, restless. Noah reached out to steady me before speaking again.
"We're looking for a place… just something small," he began. "We don't need much. Just enough space for the two of us… and soon, our baby."
Her husband leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "A family of three, soon to be four if you count responsibilities," he said in a tone that was more matter-of-fact than judgmental.
"Yes," I replied softly. "A family of four."
Elizabeth folded her hands together, studying us. "I do have a small house—bare, simple, but livable. The rent is 2,500 pesos a month. It's not much by city standards, but I know times are hard."
I swallowed, calculating the pawnshop money in my head, the bills we already owed, the hospital costs to come. "That… we can manage," I said finally, though fear prickled beneath my skin.
She nodded, then surprised us by adding, "I'll let you stay without worrying about the water bill. Consider it a small kindness. I know how hard it is to start a family when money is tight."
Tears burned my eyes before I could stop them. "Thank you," I whispered. "You don't know how much this means to us."
Her husband cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the tenderness in the air. "It's settled then. You move in tomorrow?"
"Yes," Noah said quickly, relief softening his features.
As we left Elizabeth's house, Noah squeezed my hand. "See? We're going to be alright."
I nodded, but inside, doubt lingered like a shadow.
A month passed in a blur of small adjustments—cleaning the modest house, arranging borrowed furniture, preparing baby clothes folded neatly into drawers. I grew heavier, slower, yet also more anxious. Each kick of the baby inside me reminded me that the day of reckoning drew near.
Then came that late afternoon.
It was around four o'clock when the first wave hit me—sharp, low, unexpected. At first, I thought it was just another false cramp, something my body had been doing for weeks. But the second wave came stronger, and my breath caught.
"Noah!" I called from the small wooden bed, my voice strained.
He rushed in from the kitchen, eyes wide. "What is it?"
I clutched my belly, beads of sweat already forming on my forehead. "I think… it's time. The baby—"
His face paled. "Now? Already? Oh God." He grabbed his phone, fumbling to call his sister, then pulled me up gently. "We need to get you to the hospital. Hold on, love."
We stumbled outside, and he flagged down the nearest tricycle, desperation in his voice. "Hospital, please! Hurry!"
The driver nodded, and I climbed in slowly, clutching the seat as pain rolled through me in waves. The engine rattled loudly, drowning out my cries as we sped down uneven streets.
When we arrived, everything became a blur. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and sweat, voices barking instructions over my head. Fear clawed at my chest—I had no idea what to do, no idea how to survive this. My hands trembled, searching for Noah's, but he was caught up in paperwork, panicked.
It was one of his sisters, the very one who had always spoken to me with a tiger's tone, who came to my side.
"Breathe," she commanded, her voice sharp but steady. "Don't fight the pain. Let it pass through you."
Her presence startled me, but in that moment, I clung to her strength. She guided me through the nurses' instructions, filling out forms, asking questions when I couldn't. Beneath her sternness was something unexpected: care.
Hours blurred together. My body shook, sweat soaked my hair, and tears ran freely down my face. Fear mixed with anticipation, and in the midst of the chaos, one thought anchored me: soon, I would see my child.
Then, after what felt like endless pushing, endless pain, endless cries—the air shifted.
A wail, sharp and new, filled the room.
My baby.
The nurse lifted the small, wriggling body and placed it on my chest. I sobbed, overwhelmed, my hands trembling as I touched the tiny fingers, the soft skin. Noah stood beside me, his face wet with tears, whispering, "She's perfect… she's perfect."
For three days, we stayed in that hospital. They monitored me, monitored her. I barely slept, watching her breathe, terrified that if I closed my eyes, something would happen. Nurses came and went, giving instructions, checking vitals, reminding me that motherhood was not a dream anymore—it was reality.
Finally, we were discharged.
Noah carried the bag of clothes while I cradled our baby close to my chest. The tricycle ride back to our rented house felt different this time—not desperate, but fragile. Each bump in the road made me tighten my hold, as if the world might steal her away.
When we arrived, Elizabeth was waiting outside, arms crossed but eyes soft. "Welcome home," she said simply, and for the first time in months, I felt something that almost resembled peace.
Inside that small house, with peeling paint and bare floors, we laid our baby down. She yawned, stretched, and fell asleep.
Noah wrapped his arms around me, and though exhaustion weighed me down, I leaned into him, whispering, "This is just the beginning."
He kissed the top of my head. "Yes," he said. "Our beginning."
And though the shadows of doubt and hardship lingered, in that moment, holding my child in the home we fought to claim, I let myself believe—even for just a heartbeat—that maybe, just maybe, the dream wasn't lost.