I didn't know it was possible to wake up and feel something other than pain.
But this morning—this morning, I did.
The sun peeked through the curtains in a way that felt like forgiveness.
Soft. Unhurried. Undeserved.
But real.
I lay still beneath the sheets, letting the warmth settle across my cheeks.
My hand drifted downward, resting on the gentle swell of my belly.
There was a flicker. A presence.
Small. But there.
A quiet miracle reminding me: I am not empty.
I drew a shaky breath and sat up.
The air smelled like early spring faint lavender from the windowsill and something warm from downstairs.
The kind of morning i didn't think i'd get again.
I stayed still for a moment, cradling that newness like something sacred.
And then, I moved.
I walked slowly to the kitchen, barefoot.
The cold tile met my skin like memory.
Yaya Minda stood by the stove, stirring something.
She turned before i spoke, like she already knew.
"Good morning, anak," she said, her voice soft, handing me a bowl.
Plain oatmeal. No sugar. Just enough.
I sat down.
Took a bite.
And blinked.
It didn't taste like grief.
I didn't cry.
Didn't flinch.
Just… ate.
That's when i knew:
I wanted to move forward.
Not for him.
Not even just for me.
For us.
For the child who hadn't left me.
Not even once.
-
Later that day, I stood outside a small phone shop in Montmartre.
The air was brisk.
Light brushed against cobblestones like a secret.
I hesitated.
My palms were sweating.
Inside, a young clerk greeted me kindly. He showed me a basic phone—no social media, no endless scroll. Just calls. Texts. A clean start.
I nodded, even as my hands trembled.
"New phone?" he asked casually.
"Yes," I said. Then, softer:
"…but also a clean start."
He smiled, not asking more.
When he handed it over, I added, "Can you… erase whatever was here before? All of it?"
He checked.
Deleted everything.
Something inside me cracked.
Not painfully—just… permanently.
Like pruning a wound.
Walking back, the phone in my pocket felt heavier than it should've.
Not like a tool.
Like a decision.
I sat on a bench near the Seine, river dark and slow beside me.
I opened the phone.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No texts.
No reminders of a world that used to include me.
I opened the notes app and typed:
"For you, my child. Today, I chose to protect you. I erased him.
I can't carry reminders of a world that doesn't include us fully."
I didn't send it.
It wasn't meant for him.
It was mine.
Lunch was quiet.
The good kind.
The kind where presence is enough.
Yaya folded laundry beside me on the couch.
We lived in different rhythms now—parallel, soft, unspoken.
No words.
No questions.
Just small acts of love.
The kind you don't have to name.
I pulled out my yoga mat and stretched slowly, carefully.
Yaya watched from the doorway.
Didn't interrupt.
She had learned, long ago, that sometimes being there meant saying nothing at all.
-
Later, I returned to the painting class. I'm not allowed to paint again, but i can't resist.
The teacher greeted me gently, like i'd just come back from war.
In a way, I had.
The studio still smelled of oil paint and turpentine and faint flowers from the shop next door.
I chose the corner again.
Not to hide—but to hold space.
The canvas was clean. Blank. Expectant.
I hesitated before picking up the brush.
I squeezed pastel yellow onto the palette. Then white.
Then a little ochre.
And i began.
The first stroke was soft.
A glow.
Then a curve.
A shape like a bud. An embryo.
Delicate. Small. Alive.
My heart beat loud in my ears.
I touched my belly with one hand.
Held the brush in the other.
And i kept going.
I added warm red to the base, light pushing out from the center.
Arms—curved—surrounding the bud. Protective. Unyielding.
And for the first time, I didn't see Lorenzo in the paint.
I saw something else.
Something new.
Someone.
A child i hadn't met, but already loved.
I whispered under my breath, "You're not his anymore. You're ours."
Nausea hit suddenly.
I excused myself and stumbled into the bathroom.
No vomiting. Just collapse.
I knelt against the cold tile, forehead pressed to the floor, breathing through something wordless.
I didn't cry.
I just… waited.
Then stood again.
I returned to the studio and hung my canvas carefully.
The bud glowed against a soft background.
"I painted life," I whispered to no one.
And that was enough.
-
That evening, I curled up in bed with the new phone beside me.
It still looked strange. Unused.
Like it didn't know me yet.
No messages. No calls.
Just silence.
Sometimes, I stared at it like it might tell me who i'd become.
I thought about sending a message to him.
Something like: Will you break that engagement for me?
But i didn't write it.
I couldn't.
Because this wasn't goodbye anymore.
This was… survival.
I read my earlier note again, folded it, and tucked it between the phone and the case.
A secret.
Just between me and the child i was learning to protect.
-
The next morning, I woke with trembling lips.
I touched my belly.
And this time, I didn't fall apart.
Weeks passed.
We found a new rhythm.
I painted once a week—always returning to the same canvas.
Each time, I added more light.
More gold.
The bud remained in the center.
Always surrounded.
Always safe.
I cooked again. Slowly.
Eggs. Broth. Rice porridge.
Nothing elaborate.
Yaya hovered.
Reminded me to eat.
Reminded me i wasn't alone.
And even on the days grief flickered like a shadow across my chest, I stayed standing.
I breathed through the ache.
And whispered to myself:
I am becoming a mother.
-
One quiet morning, I opened the phone and looked up flights to Manila.
I didn't book one.
Not because j couldn't.
Because i wouldn't run again.
I wrote one final note:
"I will carry you. I will not erase you."
Week four of rest.
The canvas nearly done.
A bud wrapped in light.
Outlined in gold.
I looked at it one afternoon—sunlight filtering through the window—and I smiled.
For real, this time.
"Life," I whispered.
And meant it.