The room was suffused with a tense, surreal quiet as my parents finally arrived at the hospital. I watched them walk in, their faces twisted into expressions of anger and disbelief. My mother marched straight towards Abigail, who was sitting up in bed, cradling her newborn with a look of exhausted wonder. My father lingered by the door, his eyes darting between us and the small, crying life that no longer allowed for denial.
For months, they had insisted Abigail was simply under stress, dismissing her burgeoning belly as a figment of teenage angst. My attempts to reason with them had been futile—”You’re just as dramatic as your sister,” they would snap, brushing me off with a wave of their hands. Yet here we were, undeniable reality swaddled in a hospital blanket, and still, they couldn’t quite grasp it.
My mother, her voice a knife-edge of incredulity, began questioning Abigail, but for the first time, Abigail found her voice. Her words were steady, though tinted with the fragility of someone who had held silence too long. “Mom, Dad, this is my baby. I tried to tell you. I begged you to believe me,” she said, tears brimming her eyes. “But you refused to see what was right in front of you.”
