–By Shreeansha Bhattarai

Holding the petite little hands of Laila, I cross the majestic iron gates and step on the school campus. Scanning the surroundings, I spot a sign indicating that the first-grade orientation is in the playground. Striding across the freshly mown grass, Laila and I reach the sandpit where a handful of children were building their dream castle and parents encouraging them.

“Your sister is adorable.” A high pitched sound approaches me from behind. “Foster?”

“Uhhh.” I let out. “She is not my sister.”

“Pardon my nosiness. I couldn’t help, you are just so beautiful and so is your niece.” The woman extends her right hand. “I am the mother of the kid in black.”

“Laila is my daughter.” My confession comes out as a whisper.

I have never been ashamed of giving birth at a young age. My daughter is my life. However, through my sudden confession, I wonder if the other kids will outcast her; for not having a family that meets the society’s standards.

The woman joins the crowd and becomes the informer of my scenario, becoming the source of the circulation of loud whispers and all eyes fall on me: twenty, alone, and a mother.

My whole world shattered when I was fifteen. While walking home from extra classes during the night, two men attacked me near the dumpster. I was robbed of my dignity, pride, and virtue all in a moment’s time. I was not even able to identify their faces for the night was dark and my eyes were shut during the entirety of the horror.

I had heard stories of how women who had to experience this, were murdered before being discarded and I hoped the same for me. However, I was apparently given “a chance” of life again where I could emerge as a victor in this scenario.

When the situation was already bad enough, I received the report indicating that I was pregnant. Everything came crashing down. Not only did I have to accept the atrocity that happened to me, but I would also have to bear the child of the same monster, without even knowing who the father was.

I wanted to kill the baby. That I did. However, A part of me was making it. I just could not. She was in my womb. Even though she would be the daily reminder of the terror I have faced, I could not give up on her. I could never.

Laila rushes over to me interrupting my thoughts by pulling my skirt.

“They are not letting me play.” She whines.

“Please keep her away from the children.” The mother of the black-shirted boy belittles me and signals to the door. “We are not comfortable. Your sort is bad news.”

I smile and pull Laila towards the exit, maybe I am not ready for the world. Just yet.

Image by Gustavo Fring from Pexels

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