WE SORRY YOU LOST THE CHILD

Two days later, when I finally woke up, it felt as if a truck had run a marathon across my body.

Every part of me ached.

My limbs were heavy, my head throbbed, and my chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on it, refusing to let me breathe properly. Even lifting my fingers felt like too much effort. My body was weak, drained, and unbearably exhausted, as though life itself had been slowly sucked out of me while I slept.

I tried to speak.

But when I opened my mouth, only a dry, broken sound came out. My throat burned. My voice was croaked, hoarse, barely there. Panic crept into my chest as I tried again, swallowing hard.

Nothing.

I turned my head slowly, every movement painful, my eyes scanning the room.

White walls. The faint smell of antiseptic. Machines beeping softly beside the bed.

A hospital room.

And I was alone.

My heart skipped violently. I looked around again, more carefully this time. No James. No familiar figure sitting beside me. No hand holding mine. No voice calling my name.

The bed beside me was empty.

A sudden chill ran through my body, even though the room was warm.

I forced myself to move, reaching weakly toward the side of the bed. My fingers brushed against the emergency button. With what little strength I had left, I pressed it.

The seconds stretched endlessly.

My heart pounded in my ears as memories began to flood back. The amusement park. The argument. Vanessa’s words. The fall. The pain in my stomach. The blood.

The door opened.

A nurse hurried inside, her eyes widening when she saw me awake.

“Ah, thank God,” she exclaimed, relief washing over her face. “Miss Jenny, you are awake. You finally woke up.”

Her voice sounded distant, as if I were underwater.

“Wait,” she continued quickly. “I will get the doctor right away.”

“Wait,” I croaked out, my voice barely audible.

She froze, turning back to me immediately. “Yes, ma’am?”

She rushed to my side and quickly brought a cup of water. Her movements were careful, practiced. She helped me sit up slightly and guided the cup to my lips.

I drank greedily.

The water burned my throat, but I didn’t stop. I needed it. My mouth was painfully dry, my body desperate.

After a few sips, I pushed the cup away weakly.

“James,” I whispered.

The nurse hesitated.

“Dr. James, he is…” She stopped mid-sentence.

My heart sank.

That hesitation. That pause.

Before she could finish, my hands flew instinctively to my stomach.

The moment my palms touched my abdomen, my breath hitched.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

I couldn’t feel it.

There was no familiar heaviness. No gentle tightness. No subtle warmth beneath my skin. It felt flat. Empty. Wrong in a way I could not describe.

My chest tightened as terror rushed through me.

“Is my baby okay?” I asked, my voice shaking, fear pouring out with every word.

The nurse did not answer immediately.

Instead, I saw it.

The look in her eyes.

Pity.

Raw, unguarded pity.

My heart began to race uncontrollably. My hands trembled against my stomach.

“Is my baby alright?” I repeated, louder this time, desperation creeping into my voice. “Please.”

“Ma’am,” she said softly, avoiding my gaze. “I will call the doctor.”

“Wait!” I cried out, panic seizing me. “Is my baby alright?”

She swallowed hard.

“Ma’am, please. I will get the doctor.”

She turned and left quickly, almost as if she was running away.

The moment the door closed behind her, my body began to shake.

Uncontrollably.

My heart pounded violently in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum. My hands clenched the bedsheet tightly as memories came crashing back into my mind, sharp and cruel.

I did not know what day it was.

But I remembered that moment clearly.

James standing there.

The doctor telling him there was only one operating room left.

Asking him to choose.

I remembered his hesitation.

I remembered the confusion on his face.

And even though I did not know who he chose, deep down, something inside me already knew.

Things had not ended well.

Especially for me.

The door opened again.

I lifted my head, hope flickering weakly in my chest.

But it was not James.

A male doctor entered, followed by the nurse. He looked tired, his expression serious but gentle.

“Ma’am,” he said softly. “Thank God you are awake. You have been unconscious for two days.”

Two days.

I swallowed hard.

“My baby,” I said immediately, my voice trembling. “I hope my baby is all right.”

The doctor paused.

That pause felt longer than it should have been.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said quietly.

My heart dropped.

“You’re so sorry for what?” I shouted, my voice breaking as panic exploded inside me.

The doctor flinched slightly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he repeated carefully. “But you lost the child.”

“What?”

The word slipped out of my mouth, empty and hollow.

I stared at him, unable to process what he had just said.

Lost the child.

My hands slipped limply to my sides as all strength drained from my body. My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes.

I collapsed back onto the bed, my hands moving automatically to my stomach, rubbing it gently, desperately.

I remembered how I used to rub it before.

How I could feel the baby’s movements. The small kicks. The fluttering life growing inside me.

But now there was nothing.

It felt empty.

Because it was.

“Ma’am,” the doctor said softly. “We are truly sorry. We tried everything we could.”

I looked at him through blurred vision.

“I wasn’t the one who used the operation room, right?” I asked slowly.

The room fell silent.

The doctor hesitated before answering. “Ma’am, your condition at that time was not considered critical.”

I laughed bitterly, tears streaming down my face.

“It wasn’t serious,” I said weakly. “But I lost my child.”

My voice cracked completely.

My eyes burned as tears twisted out relentlessly.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly. “I am sorry.”

He turned and left.

The nurse followed behind him, casting one last look at me filled with pity.

The door closed.

And I was alone.

I stared at the ceiling, my body curling inward as sobs finally broke free. I wrapped my arms around myself, holding my own body as if I could somehow fill the emptiness inside me.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”

My voice shook uncontrollably.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, E.”

The name slipped out naturally, painfully.

“I lost you.”

That child had been my only companion.

Even when I hadn't birth the child yet.

I felt everything. Every emotion. Every hope. Every dream I built around that tiny life.

My child.

My child was gone.

I cried until my chest hurt, until my head throbbed, until my body felt numb.

Not just my child.

James’s child.

And he wasn’t even here.

He wasn’t here when I woke up.

He wasn’t here when I found out our baby was gone.

I closed my eyes, tears soaking the pillow beneath my head, as my heart shattered into pieces I knew would never fit together again.