Two weeks later… I found out I was pregnant again.
My hands trembled as I stared at the pregnancy test—two bright red lines. My heart was pounding out of control. I sat on the floor for a long time, not crying, not smiling.
I should have called Ethan.
I should have said, “I’m having your child.”
But I didn’t have the courage.
I was afraid he’d think I was trying to cling to him.
I was afraid his mother would try to take the baby from me.
And most of all… I was afraid of the pity in the eyes of the man who used to be my husband.
So I decided to hide it.
For nine months, I lived like someone on the run. I quit my office job, moved into a small rented room in Santa Mesa, changed my phone number, deactivated Facebook, and avoided everyone I knew.
I was too scared to go to big hospitals. I only visited small private clinics.
Every time a doctor asked,
“Where is the baby’s father?”
I would force a smile and say,
“There isn’t one.”
The day labor started, the pain came violently. I was rushed to a district hospital in Manila, my back soaked in sweat, my hands gripping the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white.