8. Manoela Ferraz
1243 Words
I woke up to the weak light of day filtering through the gaps in the crooked blinds. The pale brightness of the London morning brought no warmth at all, just a reminder that the world kept spinning... even when everything inside me felt stagnant.
I turned slowly in bed, stretching my sore muscles. My body screamed for more rest, but reality didn't give me that luxury. The mattress sagged beneath me, and the absence beside me, in the space where Roger should have been, was so constant that it no longer hurt. It just was.
I got up slowly, grabbing the thin blanket I had kicked to the foot of the bed during the night, and wrapped it around myself to muffle the cold rising from the floor. My slippers were freezing, but I walked to the kitchen anyway, stepping lightly to avoid remembering the oppressive silence that filled the apartment.
I turned on the kettle. I grabbed the chipped mug with the lemon print that I'd gotten from a friend in college. There was still a little bit of stale bread left. I spread some margarine on it and put it in the sandwich maker, trying to pretend that was enough.
While I waited, I noticed the stack of envelopes on the table.
Bills.
The same ones as always. Electricity. Gas. The overdue rent. The pharmacy bill. A letter from the hospital. I sighed and pulled the invoices toward me, flipping through them one by one. The paper was cold, but what really chilled me was the invisible sum at the back of my mind—that number that kept growing and that I would never be able to reach on my own.
I finished my coffee in silence and washed the mug with slow movements. I tried not to think, but my reflection in the window glass reminded me: a thinner face, tired eyes, and the small curve growing beneath my cotton t-shirt.
It was past time to seek medical care.
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number for the neighborhood health clinic. The signal was weak in some areas of the apartment, but I paced back and forth until I finally heard the ringtone.
"Community Health Unit, good morning," answered a monotonous voice.
"Hi... good morning. I... I wanted to schedule a prenatal appointment," I said, a little quieter than I intended.
"What's your gestational age?"
"I'm about... nine weeks. Maybe ten."
"Full name? Date of birth?"
I answered everything, expecting to be cut off. But to my surprise, the receptionist said there was an opening in two days with the unit's obstetric nurse.
"Bring your ID, proof of address, and if you have it, your NHS card," she added before hanging up.
I put my phone in my pocket with the feeling that I had taken an important step—however small. The feeling didn't last long.
The sound of a key turning in the lock made me freeze.
Roger.
He stumbled in, his shirt stained with alcohol, his jeans dirty, his eyes red and sunken. The smell of alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke invaded the room like a toxic cloud.
I closed my eyes for a second before turning to face him.
"Good morning," I murmured, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He dropped his backpack on the floor with a thud and threw his keys on the table with unnecessary violence.
"Is there any coffee?" he asked, without looking at me.
"I just made some. It's in the kettle."
He didn't answer. He went to the cupboard, grabbed any mug, and poured the black liquid with trembling hands. Then he sat on the edge of the chair, as if the world owed him something.
"Where did you spend the night?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
He slowly turned his eyes to me. Those eyes that, months ago, had been kind. Now... they only carried exhaustion. And contempt.
"Working. Or do you think money just appears? Huh, Manoela?"
Working. The same excuse as always. Even when his breath said otherwise. Even when he came back with wrinkled clothes and a shattered soul.
"I scheduled the appointment," I murmured, turning my eyes to the sink. "At the clinic. I'm starting prenatal care this week."
Silence.
He took a sip of his coffee, then let out a dry laugh.
"Great. Go there and tell them you have an absent and ungrateful husband, right?"
I clenched my jaw, but didn't answer. It wasn't worth arguing. Not with him in that state.
"And try to start doing more around here too," he continued, his voice getting louder. "This house doesn't clean itself. I come home and still have to look at this mess? You want to raise a child like this?"
The house was clean. I knew it. But he didn't see it. He never saw it.
I just nodded and kept scrubbing the sink, just to keep my hands busy. He didn't touch me—not today. But just his tone of voice was enough to make my skin prickle with alertness.
When he finished his coffee, he stood up without saying another word and went straight to the bedroom, leaving the mug on the table. I heard the sound of the door slamming. And then silence again.
I went back to the kitchen chair, my body sinking into it.
My eyes went back to the bills. My hands returned to my belly. I caressed it gently, as if that little life needed to hear that I was here. That I would hold on a little longer. For us.
Because running away... still wasn't an option.
I took a deep breath and stood up. I grabbed my bag, tied my hair with the loose elastic band on my wrist, and put on the worn-out coat that had been with me since Brazil. I looked once more at the bedroom—Roger lying with his back to me, as if his presence occupied the space that was once a place of care. Now, it was just another dark corner of my routine.
I closed the apartment door slowly, without making a sound. I walked down the old stairs with slow steps, avoiding the trash piled up in the corner of the hallway, and felt the cold air hit my face like a waking slap. The London sky was gray as always, but today it seemed heavier than usual.
At the bus stop, I hugged myself.
No one was looking. No one cared. I was just another girl in a simple apron and tired eyes heading to another underpaid shift.
When the bus arrived, I got on and sat by the window, in the back, where I always sat. Where I could hide.
And it was only when the engine started vibrating beneath my feet and the buildings began to move slowly outside that the tears fell.
Silent.
Warm.
Painful.
I cried quietly, my forehead resting against the cold glass, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape. Because that was it. Because that was my life now. Pregnant. Alone. Invisible.
But deep down, a small part of me... still resisted. For her. Or for him. For the baby growing inside me, who deserved a world so much better than this one.
I closed my eyes for a moment. And let the tears flow, without shame. Because crying, sometimes, was the only way I had to keep going.
- Writer
