One night, after Rajesh had fallen asleep, I found Anaya curled up on her bed, clutching her stomach.
Her face was pale, almost gray, and tears soaked her pillow.
“Ma,” she whispered, “it hurts. Please make it stop.”
That moment shattered whatever doubt I had left.
The next afternoon, while Rajesh was still at work, I took her to St. Helena Medical Centre. She barely spoke during the drive, staring out the window with a distant expression I no longer recognized.
The nurse took her vitals. The doctor ordered blood tests and an ultrasound.
I waited, wringing my hands until they trembled.
When the door finally opened, Dr. Mehra walked in with a grave expression. He clutched the file tightly, as if the information inside weighed more than paper should.
“Mrs. Sharma,” he said quietly, “we need to talk.”
Anaya sat beside me on the examination bed, shaking.
Dr. Mehra lowered his voice.
“The imaging shows that there is something inside her.”
