From the outside, everything looks calm.
It isn’t.
I was seventeen when I got pregnant.
My parents didn’t yell. They didn’t need to. They were wealthy, respected, and obsessed with appearances. Instead of anger, they chose efficiency.
My mother made a few calls.
My father stopped looking at me.
And suddenly, I was sent away to what they told everyone was a “health retreat.”
It wasn’t.
It was a private clinic in another town.
No visitors.
No phone calls.
No answers.
Every question I asked was met the same way:
“This is temporary.”
“This is for the best.”
“You’ll understand later.”
After hours of pain and fear, I heard my baby cry.
Just once.
A thin, fragile sound that told me he was alive.
