Chapter 8: The Birth

I was eight weeks pregnant now.

The apartment had reorganized itself around the secret.

Mom and me on one side. Abuela on the other.

She hadn’t moved out. Couldn’t afford to. Neither could we—Mom’s salary barely covered rent and food as it was. Adding Abuela’s social security check was the only reason we kept the lights on.

So we lived in careful orbits. Three women in a two-bedroom apartment, navigating around each other like planets that couldn’t collide without destruction.

Mom worked doubles—sometimes triples when she could get them. Twelve-hour shifts at the hospital became fourteen, became sixteen. She’d come home exhausted, scrubs stained, feet swollen, and still manage to ask how I was feeling. If I’d eaten. If the nausea was better.

I’d left school. The guidance counselor at Columbus had been understanding when Mom explained I was pregnant. “Take some time,” she’d said. “We’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.”

I wouldn’t be going back.

We both knew it.

Abuela stayed in her room mostly. I’d hear her moving around in there—the creak of her bed, the click of her rosary beads, the low murmur of prayers in Spanish. Sometimes I’d catch her in the kitchen early in the morning, making coffee before Mom and I woke up. She’d orient toward me with those cloudy eyes and I’d look away. Walk past her like she was furniture.

Mom had stopped speaking to her entirely except when absolutely necessary.

“Tell your grandmother dinner’s ready.”

“Ask her if she needs anything from the store.”

Never Mami anymore. Always your grandmother. The distance carved into every syllable.

The baby grew.

I was eight weeks now. Still early. Still small enough that baggy clothes hid it.

But I could feel the difference. My jeans didn’t button anymore. My breasts were tender and swollen. And the nausea—God, the nausea.

Every morning like clockwork. Sometimes I made it to the bathroom. Sometimes I didn’t.

Mom would hold my hair back when she was home. Bring me crackers and ginger ale. Rub my back while I heaved into the toilet.

“It’ll get better,” she’d say. “Second trimester, it usually gets better.”

“How long did yours last? With me?”

“The whole nine months.”

Of course it did.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I’d blocked Rafael’s number six weeks ago. Right after Mom found out. Right after the truth exploded our family into pieces.

But he kept trying.

New numbers. Prison phones rotated. Different area codes. Unknown callers.

I didn’t answer anymore.

But the voicemails piled up.

I should delete them. Block every number. Change my phone entirely.

But I didn’t.

Sometimes late at night I’d listen to them. Hating myself for it. Hating him. Hating the part of me that still wanted to hear his voice.

Voicemail: “Esme, please. Just five minutes. Let me explain.”

Voicemail: “I know you’re angry. I understand. But you’re not being fair to yourself. To us.”

Voicemail: “Your mother has poisoned you against me. Told you I’m a monster. I’m not. You know I’m not.”

Voicemail: “Call me back. Please.”

I deleted them after listening. Every time.

Then waited for the next one.

I’d deleted Instagram two weeks ago. Couldn’t handle seeing Maya’s posts anymore. Her and the other girls at lunch. At someone’s birthday party. At the mall.

Normal fifteen-year-old things.

Things I’d never do again.

She’d texted a few times after I left school.

Maya: hey where have you been

Maya: are you ok? you havent been at school

Maya: esme seriously whats going on

Maya: fine whatever. let me know when you want to talk

I never responded.

What would I say?

Sorry I ghosted you. I’m pregnant with my father’s baby. Yeah, the uncle I went to visit? Turns out he’s actually my dad. And also a rapist. But it’s complicated because part of me wanted it. Or thought I did. Anyway, can’t really hang out at the mall anymore.

No.

Easier to just disappear.

Let her think I’d moved. Or died. Or whatever story made sense to her.

The friendship was over either way.

The apartment was empty when I finished school for the day.

Mom at work. Abuela—who knows. Maybe in her room. Maybe out.

I made myself lunch. Crackers and cheese. Ginger ale. The only things that didn’t make me want to throw up.

Sat at the kitchen table.

The mail was there. Stack of envelopes. Bills mostly.

But one addressed to me.

My name in his handwriting.

I stared at it.

Mom had been intercepting his letters. Most of them anyway. Throwing them away before I could see them.

She must have missed this one. Or maybe it had come after she left for work.

I should throw it away.

Should burn it.

Should—

I opened it.

Always,
Rafael

I read it three times.

Then crumpled it up.

Threw it in the trash.

Pulled it back out.

Smoothed it flat on the table.

You made me feel human.

God, he was good at this.

Even knowing what I knew. Even knowing he’d lied about Luis. Even knowing he was my father. Even knowing he’d done the same thing to Mom when she was sixteen.

Even knowing all of that—

Part of me still wanted to write back.

Wanted to tell him I missed him too.

Wanted to hear him say I was special. That what we’d done was real. That he loved me.

The sick part. The broken part.

The part that had responded to his touch. That had come on his cock. That had whispered don’t stop while he was inside me.

That part still wanted him.

I hated myself for it.

Hated that he’d planted this need in me and now I couldn’t dig it out.

I folded the letter. Put it in my pocket.

Later I’d add it to the box under my bed. All his letters. All the evidence of how he’d groomed me. Manipulated me. Broken me down until I’d walked into that trailer willingly.

I kept them all.

Couldn’t throw them away.

Some kind of sickness in me that needed proof. Needed to remember.

Needed to know it had been real.

Even if real meant terrible.

Week nine.

I woke at six AM to throw up.

Morning sickness hadn’t stopped. If anything, it was getting worse.

I made it to the bathroom just in time. Retched until there was nothing left.

Wiped my mouth. Flushed.

There was a knock on the door.

“Esmeralda?”

Abuela’s voice. Tentative. Soft.

I didn’t answer. Brushed my teeth. Splashed water on my face.

“Are you sick?”

I opened the door.

She stood there in her nightgown. Hair uncombed. She’d lost weight since the confrontation. Her face gaunt. Her housecoat hanging loose.

“Morning sickness.”

“You need to eat. Something light. Crackers. Toast. It helps.”

“I know what helps.”

I pushed past her.

She followed me to the kitchen.

“Mija, please. Can we talk?”

“No.”

I opened the fridge. Stared at the contents. Everything looked wrong. Everything smelled wrong.

Settled on toast.

Abuela sat at the table. Watching me.

“He asks about you every day.”

I didn’t respond.

“He wants to know how you’re feeling. If the baby is healthy. If you’re eating enough.”

I slammed the butter knife down on the counter.

“Stop.”

“He loves you—”

“He raped me.”

Abuela flinched.

“He made a mistake—”

“A mistake?” I turned to face her. “He had me alone in that trailer for an entire weekend. He—” I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t describe it with her sitting there looking at me like I was the one being unreasonable. “That wasn’t a mistake.”

“He wants to make it right—”

“There is no making it right.”

The toast popped. I buttered it mechanically. My hands shaking.

Abuela’s hands were shaking too. On the table. Worse than before.

“When I’m gone,” she said quietly, “you’ll understand. Family is all we have.”

“You’re not gone yet.”

“Soon.”

I looked at her. Really looked.

The weight loss was more pronounced than I’d thought. Her face gaunt. Her skin papery and thin.

“Are you sick?”

“I’m old.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She didn’t answer.

I took my toast and went back to my room.

Behind me, I heard her crying softly at the table.

I closed the door.

Week ten.

That night my phone rang. Unknown number.

I answered on the fourth ring.

Rafael: “How are you feeling?”

Me: “Tired. Sick all the time.”

Rafael: “How’s the baby?”

Me: “Growing. I’m ten weeks now.”

We talked for maybe ten minutes. His voice familiar. Easy. Like slipping into old clothes that still fit.

When I finally told him, it came out flat: “Mom knows. Everything. About you being my father. About Luis being fake. All of it.”

“I figured. That’s why you stopped talking to me.”

“She’s really angry.”

“At me or at you?”

“Both. Mostly you. But also Abuela.”

“How is my mother?”

“Not good. She’s losing weight. Something’s wrong with her but she won’t say what.”

Silence.

“She’s old,” he said finally. “Carrying a lot of guilt. It catches up eventually.”

“She chose you. Over everyone.”

“I know.”

“Do you feel bad about that?”

Long pause.

“Sometimes. But mostly I’m grateful.”

At least he was honest.

“I should go,” I said.

“Wait. Esme?”

“What?”

“Can I call you again? Like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please. Even if it’s just to hear your voice. To know you’re okay.”

I should have said no.

“Maybe.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up.

Sat there in the dark.

Hating myself for wanting to talk to him again.

But wanting it anyway.

Week twelve.

The crash woke me at two AM.

Something heavy. Hitting hard.

I sat up in bed. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—a sound. Low. Pained.

I got out of bed. Opened my door.

The hallway was dark.

“Abuela?”

Another sound. From the bathroom.

I flipped the light switch.

Abuela was on the floor. Collapsed on her side. One leg bent at a wrong angle. The other twisted underneath her.

“Oh my God—”

I dropped to my knees next to her.

“What happened?”

“Got up to pee.” Her voice thin. Reedy. “Got dizzy. Fell.”

“Can you move?”

She tried. Whimpered.

“My hip. Something—something’s wrong.”

“I’m calling 911.”

“No—” Her hand shot out. Grabbed my wrist. Stronger than I expected. “No hospitals.”

“You’re hurt—”

“They’ll ask questions.” Her eyes were wild. Desperate. “About you. About the baby. About Rafael. They’ll call authorities. They’ll take her—”

“Abuela, you need help—”

“Please, mija. Please. No hospitals.”

I stood up. Ran to Carmen’s room.

“Mom.”

She was awake instantly. On her feet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Abuela fell. I think she broke her hip. She won’t let me call 911.”

Carmen was past me before I finished the sentence.

She knelt next to Abuela. Felt her hip carefully. Abuela cried out.

“We’re calling an ambulance.”

“Carmen, please—”

“I don’t care what you want. You need a hospital.”

Carmen pulled out her phone.

Abuela grabbed her wrist.

“If you call them, they’ll see Esme. They’ll ask why a fifteen-year-old is pregnant. They’ll call CPS. They’ll make her testify. Against Rafael. She’ll have to tell them everything. Every detail. In court.”

Carmen looked at me.

I was standing in the doorway. Arms wrapped around myself. Shaking. Twelve weeks pregnant and terrified.

“Esme?”

I didn’t know what to say.

Abuela was right. The hospital would ask questions. I was fifteen and pregnant and living with my mother and grandmother. They’d want to know who the father was.

And if I told them—

If I told them it was Rafael Rivera, currently incarcerated at Greenhaven—

They’d want details. When. How. How many times.

They’d make me describe it.

They’d make me remember.

And then there would be a trial. And I’d have to say it all again. In front of strangers. In front of him.

I couldn’t.

Carmen’s jaw tightened.

“We’re still calling.”

She dialed.

The paramedics came within eight minutes.

Two of them. A man and a woman.

They assessed Abuela quickly. Asked their questions while prepping the stretcher.

The woman paramedic looked at me while they worked.

Pregnant. Fifteen. Standing there in pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Belly just starting to show under the fabric.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m fine.”

“How far along are you?”

“Twelve weeks.”

“Do you have a doctor?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes lingered. I could see her processing. Teen pregnancy. Grandmother on the floor. Living situation.

She wanted to ask more.

But Abuela groaned as they lifted her and the moment passed.

“We’re taking her to St. Luke’s,” the male paramedic said. “You can follow in your car or ride with us.”

“I’ll ride with her,” Carmen said. She looked at me. “Stay here. I’ll call you when I know more.”