I barely remember how I stayed upright when Dr. Mehra closed the door and said the words no mother should ever hear.
“Your daughter is pregnant,” he said.
“Approximately twelve weeks.”
Silence fell. The kind that presses against your skull.
I stared at him, unable to comprehend.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s impossible. She’s fifteen. She hardly goes anywhere except school.”
Anaya broke down, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.
I reached for her, but she pulled away—not from me, I realized, but from the unbearable weight of it all.
Dr. Mehra’s voice softened.
“Because of her age, we are required to involve a social worker. She will need medical and emotional support.”
I nodded mechanically, as if submerged underwater.
A social worker named Neha arrived shortly after. She asked to speak with Anaya alone. I waited in the corridor, pacing, digging my nails into my palms until they left crescent-shaped marks.
Every minute felt like an hour.
