I was sixteen years old when I discovered I was pregnant, a surreal moment blurred at the edges like a half-remembered dream. The boy was someone I loved dearly his name was Edward. For a year, Edward and I floated through the halls of our school in London, tucked away from the world, until I found out I was carrying his child. Edward was in my class, his laughter echoing in corridors that now felt endless and strange. When we realized I was pregnant, we were petrified, and neither of us dared to breathe a word to our parents. It was as though our secret hovered around us, invisible but heavy.
I came from what people would call a picture-perfect family. I was their only daughter, always bringing home top marks, the pride of our little household in the heart of the city. Edward was clever as well, and both our families dreamed wed breeze into respected universities and build shining careers. A child, in their minds, would topple everything like a stack of books in a gusty wind.
So, my mother insisted I end the pregnancy. She told me it wasnt too late, and I was swept along, barely awake, as the procedure took place. It all passed as if through fog: odd, silent, and final.
Afterwards, Edward and I tried to stitch life back together. We met in parks with ducks gazing blankly at us, finished school, went off to university, and were married within a year. My parents kept their distance, letting us float on our own tiny raft. Time slipped by in waves, and soon I was pregnant again. This time, everyone was overjoyed, the past folded away like a dried flower pressed in a book.
But in my sixth month, hospital lights blurred, and I started bleeding. Our little boy arrived weighing barely three pounds, miniscule and waxy, part real and part shadow. Three hours later, he slipped away, like mist dissolving in morning sunlight.
There were complications the doctors spoke in murmurs and removed my womb, leaving me childless for good. My mother sat beside my bed in the bland hospital room and wept, apologizing for forcing me to end that first pregnancy. Her words drifted past me, untouchable, unreal.
Now, the past stretches long and unchangeable, like the endless rain outside our flat. Mistakes cannot be mended, and all my dreams of motherhood are pinned under glass. I wonder, as I sit by Edward in our silent home, whether we can weather this emptiness together, whether happiness is still possible for us. In England, where families are meant to revolve around children running in the garden, our world is hushed and hollow, echoing with absence.
