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.
I tried to sit up. I begged to see him.
No one answered.
Then my mother walked in—calm, composed—and said,
“He didn’t make it.”
That was it.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
No proof.
I remember saying, “No… I heard him.”
She told me I needed rest.
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