CHAPTER THREE: The Day the World Forgot Her

Hospital Room

The world came back in fragments.

The steady beep of a monitor.

The sterile sting of antiseptic.

The cold weight of something missing.

Her dignity, maybe.

Marceline opened her eyes.

Bright white ceiling. A thin blanket pulled over her legs. The soft ache in her arm from the IV needle. But none of that compared to the ice-cold stare boring into her skull.

Her mother.

Amanda Valino stood at the edge of the bed like a verdict had already been delivered. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Eyes like sharpened glass.

“Mother…” Marceline croaked.

“Spare me that,” Amanda snapped, her voice low and venomous. “Now tell me, young lady. Who’s responsible for that bastard inside you?”

The word hit like a slap.

Marceline’s breath caught in her throat. Shame coiled like a serpent in her stomach. Her voice trembled. “I… I don’t know what you mean—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Amanda’s voice cracked like a whip. “The test results don’t lie. You’re pregnant. And unless the Holy Ghost touched you in your sleep, someone’s responsible.”

Marceline’s pulse roared in her ears. Her body felt foreign—heavy, distant. A prison she couldn’t crawl out of.

“Speak,” Amanda hissed. “Who did this to you?”

The name clung to her throat, a thorn lodged too deep to pull free. She didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real. Would make him real again.

But it slipped out in a broken whisper.

“…Cross.”

Amanda flinched. Her eyes widened in disbelief, then sharpened into a storm.

“What did you just say?” Her voice was barely human.

“Cross Dejeva,” Marceline repeated, tears now spilling down her cheeks. “He’s the father.”

Silence. But not peace.

It was the kind of silence that hung before an explosion.

Amanda’s lips curled, not in confusion—but in fury. Disgust. Betrayal. “I warned you. I warned you to stay away from that boy. That snake. And now you’ve—” she broke off, choking on her own rage. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Marceline sobbed. “It was a mistake, I swear—”

“Mistake?” Amanda barked. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? You’ve stained this family’s name. Do you think you can cry your way out of this?”

Marceline bowed her head, the shame crashing over her in waves. Her heart was a raw, pulsing wound. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Her entire body trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispered again and again, like a prayer.

Amanda didn’t soften.

She stepped back like Marceline was something foul. Something rotting.

“I won’t have this filth under my roof,” she said, every word a dagger. “You want to act like a whore, then suffer like one. You’re on your own, Marceline. I cut ties with you.”

The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t.

“You… what?” Marceline gasped.

“I mean it,” Amanda said coldly. “You are no longer my daughter.”

And then she turned to leave.

“No!” Marceline cried, ripping the IV from her arm, pain flashing but ignored. Blood welled, but she dropped to the floor, crawling toward Amanda with trembling hands.

“Please, Mother. Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me—don’t abandon me,” she sobbed, clinging to the hem of Amanda’s coat like a dying child.

Amanda looked down at her—no pity, no warmth. Just contempt.

“You’re nothing but a disgrace,” she spat. “I regret ever having you.”

Then she shoved Marceline’s hands away and walked out.

The door slammed behind her, loud and final.

The door didn’t just close.

It shut—with finality, with judgment, with the weight of a mother’s rejection sealing the room like a tomb.

Marceline didn’t move.

She stayed there on the cold linoleum floor, knees scraped, IV still dangling from her arm, blood trickling down her skin like shame. Her body trembled, but her mind was blank—like her soul had gone quiet from the shock.

She whispered to no one. “I’m sorry.”

The walls didn’t answer.

The buzzing fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a pale glow on her pale skin. The air smelled of bleach and betrayal.

Marceline pressed her palm to her chest like she could hold her heart together if she just pushed hard enough. But it was no use. The cracks ran too deep.

Amanda was gone.

And with her went every thread of warmth, of protection, of home. All Marceline had now was the steady echo of her own heartbeat—erratic and desperate—and the hollow ache of a future unraveling in real-time.

She dragged herself back to the bed, body limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her hands shook as she pulled the blanket around herself—not for warmth, but for illusion. As if covering up could somehow erase the ugliness her mother had seen.

She stared at the ceiling again, but this time, it felt farther away. Like the world itself was retreating.

… … … … ..

Amanda’s Apartment

Nightfall bled across the sky like bruises on pale skin.

The air was cold.

Not the kind of cold that nipped at your skin—but the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there, clawing at your chest with every breath. Marceline stood outside her mother’s door, her fists raw from knocking, her voice hoarse from pleading.

“Mother, please… please open the door,” she whispered, barely louder than the night breeze.

Nothing. Not even footsteps on the other side. Just silence.

That silence mocked her. It curled around her like smoke, choking the last flickers of hope from her lungs.

Her fingers shook as she reached for her phone—her last thread of connection, of salvation. Cross. His name glowed on her screen, too familiar. Too dangerous.

She hit the call button.

Ring.

Ring.

Voicemail.

She swallowed, chest rising in shallow gasps. Again.

Ring. Ring. Still no answer.

Again.

Pick up, please pick up.

Again.

Each ring was another slap to the face. Each second he didn’t answer was another crack in her already shattered soul.

Her thumb hovered above the redial icon, her hands trembling uncontrollably now. She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said aloud, her voice shaking like broken glass. “I don’t even want you to take responsibility.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her other hand clutched her stomach—that little flicker of life she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t planned for… but couldn’t ignore.

“I just need help, Cross.” Her breath hitched. “Just something to survive. Just a little money. Just a little… anything.”

The phone slipped from her hand, landing on the concrete with a hollow thud.

She crumpled next to it.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.

Just... defeated.

“I was good,” she whispered to the night. “I was good to you. Why would you leave me like this?”

She felt it now—not just sadness. Rage. Hurt. Abandonment.

The sharp ache of realizing that the person you gave everything to… couldn’t even give you a callback.

She pressed her forehead against the cold step, the tears flowing without shame now. “Why is it so easy for people to throw me away?” she choked.

And then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

Marceline froze. Her breath caught mid-sob. Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes wide and glassy.

Jennie stood there, small and soft in the golden light of the hallway.

No judgment. No disappointment.

Just heartbreak.

She knelt beside Marceline and gently wiped the tears away like a ritual. Like maybe, if she wiped hard enough, she could erase the pain.

“You can come in,” Jennie whispered.

She didn’t wait for Marceline to move. She just helped her up, steady hands lifting broken bones and bruised pride.

Marceline wanted to crumble again, to fall into her arms and sob, but she held herself upright as Jennie guided her inside.

Then she saw her mother.

Amanda.

Standing in the hallway, arms folded, her face carved from stone. No flicker of sympathy. No trace of softness. Only ice. Absolute and final.

“Pack your things,” she said coldly. “Tomorrow you’re going to your cousin’s house.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t explain.

She just turned her back—and walked away.

And that silence?

It was louder than any scream.

And all Marceline could do was stand there, hollowed out, as the world she once knew closed in around her like a cage.

… … … … ..

Time blurred in the weeks that followed Marceline’s exile. Days melted into nights filled with sleepless tears, and silence became her only companion. Her cousin's house was never home—it was survival wrapped in obligation, an echo of all she had lost.

She’d traded textbooks for dirty aprons, dreams for exhaustion. She worked whatever odd jobs came her way—washing dishes, scrubbing floors, taking orders with a tired smile stitched to her face. Her pride bled out quietly with every bite of shame she swallowed.

But worst of all were the nights. When the house went quiet the walls stopped pretending to care. When her body curled into itself on the too-small mattress, one hand always protectively over her belly, whispering apologies to the life inside her.

Her mother’s last words still clung to her like frostbite:

> “You're going to earn your own money and take care of that bastard in your belly. Don’t expect me to feed that thing.”

Each word had been a knife. And they never stopped cutting.

This morning was no different. The ache in her lower back had returned, heavier than usual, but there was no time to think, let alone rest.

“Marceline! What are you dawdling for? Get your act together!” her aunt barked from the kitchen.

“Yes, Auntie!” she called, blinking back dizziness as she grabbed the tray stacked high with dishes. The metal bit into her palms, and her knees already felt like glass ready to shatter.

She stepped into the bustling dining area. Her breath came faster. She gripped the tray tighter.

> Just a few more hours. You can cry later.

She never saw the grease slick on the floor. One misstep—and the world tilted.

She slipped.

The crash of breaking plates was deafening. A gasp rippled through the restaurant, but Marceline didn’t hear it.

Because pain—white-hot and blinding—ripped through her abdomen. She collapsed hard onto the floor, the breath punched from her lungs.

At first, she couldn’t even scream. The agony was so sharp, so raw, it stole the sound right out of her.

Her hands flew to her stomach, cradling it protectively. Tears burst from her eyes, unbidden. “Auntie…” she choked out, voice trembling, cracked. “It hurts. Something’s wrong.”

Her aunt rushed to her side, the irritation in her voice gone. “Stay still, don’t move! We’ll get help!”

Marceline looked down.

Blood.

It spread beneath her, thick and vivid, and the moment she saw it—something inside her shattered.

“No…” she whispered. Her fingers trembled as they pressed into her belly, desperate, panicked, pleading with the universe to stop what was already happening.

“No, no, please—not this…”

Her vision blurred, her heart racing in terror. The pain kept coming in waves, rolling over her like a tide determined to drown.

Tears streamed down her face, but not from the pain—not really.

It was fear.

It was helplessness.

It was the unbearable ache of knowing she might be losing the one thing—the only thing—that had been truly hers.

“Auntie… the pain…” she whimpered, her body folding in on itself. “It’s too much…”

Her aunt knelt beside her, panic overtaking irritation. “Don’t move, don’t move. I’ll take you to the hospital,” she said, but her voice shook.

That’s when she saw it.

The blood.

Pooling beneath Marceline like a silent scream.

“No…” the girl whispered, the world tilting.

She could feel it—life slipping away. Something precious, something hers, tearing itself from her body. Her fingers trembled as they pressed against her belly as if she could hold it in, hold on.

Her aunt's hands were on her, her voice far away, but Marceline couldn't focus. The sounds around her dimmed. Her strength gave out. Her body went limp.

She felt herself slipping.

Not just into unconsciousness.

But into a place of darkness where hope couldn’t reach.

And with one final, rattled breath—

She let go.

… … … … .

Hospital Room — Dusk.

The sterile white walls hummed with silence. Machines beeped steadily, indifferent to the storm brewing inside her chest.

Marceline stirred, her lashes fluttering against tear-swollen cheeks. The light above was dim, a gentle glow that could’ve almost passed for peace—if not for the look on her aunt’s face.

The moment their eyes met, Marceline knew.

Something was wrong.

“Auntie?” Her voice cracked like brittle glass. “Why do you look like that?”

Her aunt's mouth trembled as she stepped forward, hesitating. “I’m sorry, Marceline.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Marceline sat up a little, suddenly alert. “What… what do you mean? Why are you sorry?”

The answer came like a blade to the gut.

“You lost the baby. It—it didn’t make it.”

The world stood still.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t understand. The words made no sense. They echoed but didn’t land.

“What?” Marceline breathed, a whisper too soft to carry the weight of her horror. “No… no, no, tell me you're lying.” Her voice broke, turning sharp. “Please tell me you're joking.”

Her aunt only shook her head. Tears rimmed her eyes.

“No…” Marceline gasped, her hands flying to her stomach—flat now, hollow, achingly empty.

Her body shook violently. “No! No! You can’t be gone! You promised me—” Her voice cracked into a scream. “HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME?!”

She folded over, clutching her belly as if she could still hold onto what had already slipped through her fingers. “I didn’t even get to say your name…”

Her cries tore through the walls like thunder. Grief consumed her in an unrelenting wave. It stole her breath, ripped at her chest, and crushed her from the inside out.

> This can’t be happening.

This isn’t real.

This was all she had left.

Tears streamed freely, staining the gown, the sheets, and her skin. Her sobs were no longer quiet—they were broken screams from a girl whose entire world had just crumbled.

“This is your fault,” she spat suddenly, her voice filled with venom and despair. Her eyes darkened with fury, madness, and pain. “Cross Dejava, you did this to me.”

She glared at nothing—at the ceiling, the walls, the memory of him.

“I hate you,” she whispered. “I hate you for not answering. For not caring. For letting me suffer alone.”

Her voice cracked again, the weight of those final words too much to carry.

And then—just silence. Deafening. Suffocating. Unforgiving.

Her aunt tried to reach for her, but Marceline turned away, curling into herself like a broken bird with clipped wings.

A mother with no child.

A heart with no light.