PREGNANT AT TWENTY: HE NEVER KNEW

"You'll be strong like him," I would whisper, resting my hand gently on my growing belly, speaking to the little life that was already the center of my entire world. "And kind like him. And you'll have his eyes — beautiful, dark eyes that see everything. And one day… one day I hope he gets to see how wonderful you are."

But as my belly grew, so did the whispers. The judgment. The cold stares that followed me everywhere I went. I was only twenty years old — still barely a child myself — carrying a baby with no ring on my finger, no husband, and no last name to explain where he came from. In the eyes of the people around me, I was just an ignorant girl who had wasted her life. A loose woman who had seduced her employer.

Every time I walked through the market, every time I washed clothes by the river, and every time I sat at the door of my small rented room, I could feel their eyes on me. Neighbors would stop talking when I passed by, then immediately resume their whispering once I was out of earshot. So young… they would say. What a waste of a life… No husband, no family, what kind of life can she give that child? She probably doesn't even know who the father is… Just another girl who gave herself away too easily and still expects her parents to take care of her.

Their words were like needles, piercing through me every single day. Once, an elderly woman from the next room stopped me in the hallway, her eyes traveling over my rounded belly with disapproval etched deep into every line of her face. "You should be ashamed of yourself, child," she said, her voice sharp and cold. "So young, already with child and no man to stand by you. What kind of example are you setting? You think you can raise a baby all alone? You think life will be kind to you?"

I stood there, clutching the bag of vegetables against my chest, my throat tightening with tears I was fighting to hold back. "I will work very hard," I whispered. "I will give him a good life."

She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Hard work won't change the fact that he was born out of wedlock. That he has no name. That his father didn't want him. Mark my words — you'll regret this. And one day, that child will look at you and ask why he has no father, and what will you say then?"

I fled to my room after that, locking the door behind me and sliding down to the floor, silent sobs shaking my body. It hurt — not because I believed her, but because I feared she might be right. What if Yvan grew up resenting me? What if he asked questions I couldn't answer? What if he looked at me one day and saw not a mother who loved him enough to sacrifice everything, but a girl who had ruined both our lives?

The days grew shorter and the weather hotter, and despite all the judgment and whispers, my body continued to change. My belly grew large and round, firm and undeniable, stretching even the largest clothes I owned. I wrapped my shawl tightly around myself, trying to conceal what could no longer be hidden.

And still I worked. Even when my back ached so badly I could barely stand, even when my feet swelled until they felt heavy as lead, even when the dizziness and weakness returned — I kept going. I washed clothes until my hands were rough and calloused, scrubbing away the dirt of strangers. I carried heavy baskets of vegetables under the scorching sun, my calves burning, breathless with every step. I mopped floors in the homes of the wealthy, looking up at their high ceilings and polished furniture.

Every day I told myself the same story, until I almost believed my own imagination — that somewhere, it was the two of us, hand in hand, facing a judgmental world alongside our child. But fate seemed to have turned its back on me, sending only hardship instead of happiness. I couldn't help but weep as I gently stroked my son, who was already moving within me — a reminder that I must not give up on life's challenges.

Did he truly never look for me? Did he not feel even the slightest trace of what I felt? Was I really just another woman he had slept with?

As the weeks and months passed, every strong kick from my son was matched by the harsh judgment I received from those around me. Once, while resting by the riverbank after washing a mountain of clothes, a group of young women walked past. They looked at my belly, then exchanged glances with one another, their voices carrying clearly over the rushing water.

"So young and already pregnant," one said with a laugh. "Some people really have no shame and no self-respect."

"She probably doesn't even know who the father is," added another, laughing without restraint.

I lowered my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I wanted to stand up and tell them — His father is a good man. He is kind and strong. He just doesn't know he has a son. But I couldn't. Because if I did, if I spoke his name, they would judge him too. They would say I tricked him, that I used what happened between us for money. And I couldn't bear to see his name tarnished because of me. So I stayed silent. I swallowed their words like bitter medicine, and told myself — They don't know. They don't understand.