An Unspoken Name

I had been drowning long before I lost him.

Most days, I barely felt like I existed. Depression wasn’t just a feeling - it was an absence. A void inside me that no one seemed to notice. I moved through life like a ghost, unheard, unseen. My family barely acknowledged me unless it was to point out my failures. I had no real friends, no one to confide in, no reason to believe things would ever change.

And then, two pink lines.

For the first time in years, I felt something other than emptiness. Fear, yes, but also hope. There was life inside me, a tiny heartbeat that was all mine. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had a reason to keep going, a purpose that no one could take away from me.

But I was trapped in more ways than one.

The abuse had been going on for months - words that cut like knives, hands that left bruises in places no one would see, threats that made me too afraid to leave, too afraid to fight back. Every day was survival. Every day was walking on glass, hoping I wouldn’t say or do the wrong thing.

And now, I had a secret.

A dangerous one.

If anyone found out, my life would be over before it ever had the chance to begin. I’d be kicked out, left with nowhere to go, no money, no support. So I kept quiet, hiding every symptom, every moment of weakness. Every wave of nausea, every instinct to cradle my stomach, every whisper of his name. I lived in fear of slipping up, of saying too much, of someone noticing before I had the chance to escape.

I was so close.

I spent my nights planning, scrolling through job listings, looking up shelters and rentals, calculating how much I could save in secret before I could run. I wasn’t just surviving for myself anymore - I was surviving for us.

And then, I found out.

”It’s a boy, mama” the nurse had said, smiling like it was just another appointment.

A son. My son.

I named him Christian.

I never spoke it aloud, but I said it over and over in my mind. Christian. My little boy. My little miracle. He was my light, my escape, my salvation from the darkness I had been drowning in for so long.

Until the pain started.

It was sudden, sharp, unbearable. I doubled over in my tiny bedroom, my arms wrapped around my stomach, desperate to hold him in, to protect him. When I saw the blood, my entire world shattered.

I stumbled to the bathroom, my hands shaking so badly I could barely keep myself upright. Tears blurred my vision as I collapsed to the floor, the cold tile pressing against my skin.

”Please”, I sobbed. “Please, not him. Please, God, don’t take my baby.”

But God wasn’t listening. No one was. And that was the day I lost all faith in my religion.

My body betrayed me, forcing him out too soon, stealing him away before I ever got the chance to hold him, before I ever got to tell him how much I loved him.

When it was over, I pressed my hands against my empty stomach, trying to convince myself this wasn’t real. That maybe, just maybe, if I closed my eyes long enough, I’d wake up, and he’d still be there.

But the silence told me the truth.

Christian was gone.

-

The world kept moving, but I didn’t.

No one knew. No one would ever know.

I carried my grief in silence, suffocated by it. I forced myself to exist, to nod along when people spoke, to smile when it was expected, but inside, I was screaming.

And then, the cruelest part - pregnancy announcements. Happy, glowing women placing hands over their growing bellies, talking about baby names, nursery colors, tiny clothes. Every time, it was a knife to the heart.

A friend mentioned her sister’s pregnancy, gushing over ultrasound pictures. I nodded, forcing my face to remain neutral, even as my chest caved in on itself. Another girl from work complained about morning sickness, rolling her eyes like it was the worst thing that could happen to her. I wanted to tell her she was lucky. So damn lucky.

I wanted to scream, You have what I lost.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I swallowed my pain and nodded, pretending I wasn’t breaking. Pretending I didn’t feel the ghost of a name on my lips every time I saw a little boy walking alongside his mother. Pretending I didn’t still whisper, “I love you, Christian”, when I was alone at night, knowing he would never get to hear it.

The gap in my heart once filled by the thought of a mini-me now lays empty at the thought of what could have been.

Pretending I hadn’t lost the one thing that had ever made me feel alive.