Cench, it's your baby," I say, tears streaming down my face. "No, it isn't. Don't come near my house again," he retorts as his pregnant girlfriend approaches. Feeling heartbroken, I walk back to my car, catching a glimpse of him touching her stomach through the enormous windows of his house. I start my car and drive away, the memories of our happy moments fading in his mind. It's a six-hour drive from my apartment to his house, but I'm determined. I know that his new girlfriend is setting him up, and that baby isn't his. I saw her with her ex-boyfriend at a party weeks before they got together, but he refuses to believe me. He thinks I'm just jealous. As I keep my eyes on the road, I rub my belly, finding solace in the life growing inside me.
I finally arrive at my small, one-room apartment. Despite its modest size, I'm grateful for its bathroom, kitchen, living room, laundry room, and bedroom. It's all I need, and it makes me happy. Currently, I'm three months pregnant. I lie down on the bed, overwhelmed with excitement, and begin browsing baby items online. It will be a boy, and I couldn't be more thrilled.
Months pass by swiftly, and I receive some astonishing yet overwhelming news—it's twins, a boy, and a girl! Overjoyed by the revelation, I embark on a shopping spree, ensuring I'm well-prepared for their arrival. Throughout this pregnancy, I've been navigating the journey alone. It hasn't been easy, especially while juggling my studies at the university. However, I draw inspiration from those who have succeeded before me. If they can do it, so can I.
Now, at eight months pregnant, my back aches incessantly. It feels as though I'm carrying an 80-pound weight with me around the clock. The strain never seems to relent, as if I'm engaged in a perpetual workout.
The doctor urgently instructs me to take a deep breath, but it feels impossible. I let out a scream, my back arching in pain. The doctor encourages me to push harder, counting down from three. "Three, two, one, go!" she exclaims. I summon all my strength and give it my all. And then, a cry fills the room. It's a baby boy, a testament to my endurance and love. But the journey isn't over yet; there's another precious life waiting to make their entrance into the world.
It has been one year since the incident with Oakley. Recently, I heard on the news that the baby wasn't his, confirming my earlier warning to him. Unsaved numbers have been calling me persistently, and deep down, I know it's him. However, I don't have the time or energy to engage with him. I don't want to let a man into my children's lives who will only hurt them.
Brenden has been watching a lot of Cocomelon and recently learned the "Mommy Finger" song. He often asks me why there's no "Daddy Finger" in our house. I come up with various excuses to divert his attention. As for Jazahara, she lives in her own imaginative world, much like how I used to be. She sits there, lost in her thoughts, and I can't help but smile. She truly is the most adorable baby girl I've ever seen.
As it gets late, I tell the kids to head to the bathroom. I brush their hair, give them a bath, moisturize their skin, and help them put on their pajamas. I read them their favorite story, "Mama's Moo." Their eyes slowly close, and I say a short prayer before kissing them goodnight.
I head into the shower, keeping an eye on them through the camera I've placed in their crib. I take my time, relishing this precious "me time." I brush my teeth and complete my skincare routine. Putting on my silky black dress, I return to the bedroom and check on them once again. I lay down on my bed beside them, feeling the weight of exhaustion. My eyes begin to close until my phone rings, displaying an "unknown number." I know it's him, but I'm tired of his incessant calls. Perhaps if I answer, he'll finally stop. With a sigh, I pick up the phone and hear his tired voice on the other end. "Y/N, is this you?" he asks. "Yes, it's me," I respond. "Oh, how have you been?" he asks. "Just keeping on," I reply, hoping to keep the conversation brief.
And the kids? Well, they are good kids," he asks, genuinely curious. "They are twins," I respond, my guard still up. He suggests doing a DNA test to ensure they are his children and expresses his readiness to be a father. "You are already a father," I say, but deep down, I know he's not their biological father. "No, I wasn't the father," he admits, hoping for some empathy from me. However, I remain resolute, urging him to get to the point.He finally musters the courage to ask, "Can I see the kids?" I immediately respond with a firm "No," wanting nothing to do with him. "Please," he pleads, "just let me see if they look like me. If there's a possibility..." I let out an exasperated sigh, realizing he won't relent. "Fine," I reluctantly agree. "I'll send you a quick photo, and then we're done." With that, I end the call, feeling weary and ready for sleep.The next morning, I wake up to a barrage of messages flooding my phone. "Y/N, don't keep them away from me. I take full responsibility for my past actions," he pleads. He begs me to let him see the kids, promising to leave me alone afterward. I simply respond, "I'll think about it," unsure of what to do next.
