I was left alone, with a growing belly and a fear that consumed me from within. I slept in half-built houses, washed other people’s clothes, and sold oranges at the market to survive. When the time came, I gave birth under a mango tree, behind the midwife Doña Estela’s booth.
“Hang in there, baby, almost there,” she told me, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
The baby was born silently, with my fists clenched.
“What are you going to name him?”
“Chidera,” I whispered. “Because what God has written, no one can erase.”
Life was a battle. Chidera and I shared borrowed mattresses, cold nights, and hungry days. When he turned six, he asked me:
“Mom, where is my dad?”
“He traveled far, son. One day he’ll come back.”
“And why doesn’t he call?”
“Maybe he lost his way.”
