The nurse’s gentle sways and soothing murmurs seemed to work their magic, calming the distressed baby’s sobs did more .
The other baby, meanwhile, lay in its stroller, calmly observing the scene with an air of quiet contentment, as if already accustomed to the world around it.
I watched on, frozen in a mix of emotions, unsure of how to feel. These tiny beings, my babies, had just been placed into this world, and I hadn’t even had the chance to carry them yet.
Fear gripped my heart, its icy fingers wrapping tightly around my emotions. I was terrified that if I touched them, if I allowed myself to feel their tiny hands wrap around my finger, every ounce of revenge I’d been harboring, every plan I’d meticulously crafted, every sacrifice I’d made until now... I’d give it all up for them.
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Heaven bless the doctor and the other woman who hadn’t insisted I carry them. But that didnt stop them from exchanging strange glances.
It was expected.
The pain had subsided, but tears refused to fall. I wasn’t even attempting to hold my babies, so I didn’t blame the quiet judgment that seemed to be passing around the room. The weight of their silent scrutiny was palpable, a heavy blanket that suffocated me.
"We are not judging you," the woman said suddenly, her voice piercing the fog of my thoughts. I felt like I’d been slapped back into reality, my eyes widening in stunned surprise. I was certain I hadn’t vocalized my thoughts, so how did she know exactly what I was thinking?
She scooted closer, her movements deliberate and gentle, and sat down beside me on the labor bed. Her eyes locked onto the doctor, and I found myself following her gaze, curiosity getting the better of me. The doctor’s expression was inscrutable, but I sensed a tension in the air, a feeling that something was off.
Even with my limited experience of the world - having spent most of my life indoors - I knew that this wasn’t normal. The atmosphere in the room was thick with unspoken words, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being left unsaid. The silence was oppressive, heavy with anticipation, and I felt my heart beating faster as I waited for someone to break the silence.
The doctor nodded subtly to her, a silent cue that seemed to be asking her to continue, to share whatever it was that she had been hesitating to say. The woman’s eyes flickered back to mine, and I sensed a deep sadness in her gaze, a sense of empathy that made my heart skip a beat.
"I’m Celine," the woman said with a warm smile, "and that’s my beautiful daughter over there - she’s a doctor, as you know." Her eyes sparkled with pride as she nodded toward the doctor, who was watching us with a quiet intensity. My gaze darted back to the doctor, but I remained silent, my curiosity piqued. I was still trying to understand where this conversation was headed.
Celine’s next words caught me off guard. "And you look like her," she said, her voice low and gentle.
I squinted my brows in confusion, my mind racing to process her statement.
Look like who? What did she mean? That I resembled her daughter? I waited for her to elaborate, my eyes locked on hers in anticipation.
"Your mother, Avery."
My eyes snapped wide as realization dawned on me like a thunderclap: these people knew me. They knew who I was, and that knowledge sparked a sense of trepidation within me. Could they be enemies? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I suddenly felt trapped.
My gaze darted over to the doctor, who was still holding my baby, her eyes watching me with an unnerving intensity. A new fear sprouted within me, its roots digging deep into my psyche.
Could that be the reason why she’s holding them? Is she using my own child as leverage against me? The thought sent a wave of panic crashing over me, and I felt my heart racing with a mix of fear and adrenaline.
Celine’s voice cut through my swirling thoughts, as she continued.
"We were friends, very good friends, until she passed away." Her eyes clouded over, and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of sadness. "I know you’re confused about how I might have known she’s your mother," she continued, her voice measured. "But I have my ways... and you do too."
’What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ I wanted to yell at her,
But exhaustion and weakness pinned me to the bed, rendering me mute. I wanted to demand that the doctor return my babies to me, but all I could manage was a faint, helpless glare.
The woman’s hands rummaged through her bag, producing a faded photograph that she held out to me. As I gazed at the image, my heart skipped a beat. There, smiling brightly at the camera, stood my mother - a woman I had never met, but whose face I knew intimately from the countless pictures my dad had shared with me.
In the photo, my mother stood beside Celine, both of them proudly displaying their swollen bellies. Their hands were clasped together, forming a heart shape as they beamed with joy.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to touch the photograph, to connect with the moment captured in the image. Without thinking, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the worn edges of the picture as I took it from Celine’s hands, inspecting it more closely.
As I gazed at the photograph, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance between my mother and me. It was as if I was staring at an older version of myself, and the realization was both fascinating and heartbreaking. I felt a deep pang of sadness, knowing that I had never gotten to experience her warmth, her smile, or her love.