11. Manoela Ferraz
989 Words
I closed the apartment door slowly, as if the slightest noise could collapse what was left of my balance.
The sound of the key turning in the lock was the only sign that I was alone. Again.
I tossed my bag onto the stained sofa and untied my apron with still-trembling hands. The image of him... sitting there, waiting for me as if he had the right. As if five months hadn't passed. As if everything had been suspended since that night.
Ravi.
Even the name felt like a whisper I avoided saying.
He stayed there for hours. Watching me. Waiting. And even when I tried to pretend, even when I looked away, my skin knew he was there. Like an echo in the depths of my chest.
And now he wanted to have lunch with me.
It was just lunch. Just one hour. But a part of me knew that once I sat at that table with him, everything would change. Again.
I went to the bathroom, taking off my blouse along the way, and faced myself in the mirror. The reflection gave back my image with cruel honesty: deep dark circles, tired skin, and a slight bulge below my navel, where life grew in silence.
I lowered my gaze and touched my belly slowly.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I murmured, swallowing the knot forming in my throat.
The night dragged on. Roger didn't come back. Not that I wanted him to. His absence was a relief, even if temporary. I ate a piece of stale bread, took a shower, and got into bed early. But sleep took a long time to come.
I stared at the ceiling for long minutes, thoughts jumping from one side to the other.
What if he is the father?
What if he wants to take the baby away from me?
What if he doesn't want to?
Each question was a needle. But none hurt more than the possibility of clinging to hope.
I couldn't afford that luxury.
The alarm went off at seven. I put on a loose blouse and sweatpants, brushed my hair into a simple ponytail, and left without making a sound.
I took the empty bus toward the neighboring neighborhood, where the community health clinic was located. The London sky was gray as always, but the air had a biting cold that seemed to cut through my clothes.
During the ride, I watched through the window the streets still half-asleep. Children with backpacks bigger than their bodies. Elderly women pushing grocery carts. Hurried people with coffee in their hands and tired looks.
Everyone seemed to have a destination. A purpose.
And me?
I was going to tell a nurse that I'm carrying a child whose father doesn't even know exists. That I have no health insurance, no support network, no peace at home. That I survive between one tray and another, faking smiles for customers while carrying on my shoulders more than I can bear.
But that was it. That was what I had.
I got off the bus and entered the small health unit. The place smelled of alcohol, aged paper, and exhaustion.
I handed my documents to the receptionist and sat in one of the blue plastic chairs, gripping my fingers tightly. My hands were sweating, and my stomach was churning, but it wasn't nausea—it was nerves.
Minutes later, a woman in a white coat appeared through the side door and called:
"Manoela Nogueira?"
I stood up, and she smiled kindly.
"Let's start your prenatal care, dear?"
I nodded, following her down a narrow hallway to a room with light-colored tiles. She asked me to lie down, filled out a long form with questions that made me shrink even more—"does the father know?", "do you have family support?", "how is your emotional safety?"
I answered what was necessary. The rest... I swallowed in silence.
She asked me to lift my blouse, applied a cold gel to my belly, and positioned the fetal sonar device.
For a few seconds, nothing.
Then, the sound.
Tum-tum-tum-tum.
My heart tightened in my chest.
The baby's sound.
My baby.
Tears streamed down before I could stop them. And for the first time since I found out, a part of me smiled inside. Because there, in that rhythmic, fast heartbeat, there was life. And maybe... a chance.
The nurse smiled too, as if she understood what I was feeling.
"It's strong. Very strong. Everything is going to be okay, Manu."
I nodded, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
But inside... I was still trembling.
I took the same bus back, now more crowded. I squeezed into a corner near the window, the prenatal record in my hands, folded between my fingers.
His name still echoed in my head. Ravi.
It was crazy to agree to have lunch with him. Even crazier was hiding the truth for so long. But how to tell him? How to look into the eyes of that man—as broken as I was—and say that the night he barely remembers... changed my life forever?
At every bus stop, I felt as if the ground beneath my feet was about to crumble.
Maybe he was just curious. Maybe it was just guilt.
Or maybe... he wanted to stay.
But I couldn't dream of that. Not now. Not yet.
When I got home, Roger still hadn't shown up. The house was silent, like a temporary relief. I walked in, took off my shoes, and lay down on the sofa.
I closed my eyes for a few minutes, feeling my heart beat fast. My hand went to my belly again, and this time, I spoke in a low voice:
"Whatever happens... we'll figure it out, okay? I promise."
Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that promises whispered to our own hearts are the hardest ones to break.
- Writer
