We were very close to getting married when, one day, Martin, a man I’d dated for four years, ghosted me. He didn’t respond to my calls or text messages. I went to his place several times, and he wasn’t around. This went on for over two weeks—no calls, nothing.

I sent him a text message every day, begging him to say something. I woke up one morning to a breakup message from him. He didn’t offer any major reason apart from needing a break to put his life in order. I knew his life. I’d been part of that life for over four years. It wasn’t flashy or flamboyantly awesome, but it had order. At any point in time, he knew what to do or say, and he had a good job, so what order again?

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He begged me to leave him alone, and this broke me into pieces. I couldn’t concentrate. It felt like I’d used all my investments to build a house, only for the house to collapse right at my feet. I didn’t go to church for over a month, and when I finally went, I didn’t go for communion. Father Thaddeus, our parish priest, a priest I’ve been very close to, sought to know what was happening to me.

“You don’t come to Mass these days, and when you do, you’re not your usual self. What’s wrong with you?” he asked me after church one day.

I broke into tears. He held me by the hand and walked me into his office. For several minutes, I couldn’t help it. I cried like a baby. He let me cry. He listened attentively to my heartbreaking story. He told me that my situation should draw me closer to the cross rather than leave me alone.

So he would call to ask how I was doing. He would ask me to visit so we could talk about it. When I cried, he gave me a shoulder, and one day, instead of a shoulder, our lips found each other. I was vulnerable and weak. That isn’t an excuse, but that was my situation. I would do anything that promised a little freedom from the heartbreak, including sleeping with a man who wore an ecclesiastical ring to symbolize his spiritual union and total dedication to the Catholic Church.

It didn’t happen once or twice. He even sneaked into my room in disguise just to have carnal fun with me. Then I got pregnant. His first response was denial, telling me to be honest and tell him he wasn’t responsible for the pregnancy.

I told him, “You’re the only man I’ve been doing this with. It can only be you.”

He insisted my ex might have come back along the line to sleep with me. I denied it vehemently and told him to look forward rather than keep talking about the past. Then he asked me to abort the pregnancy. He put money on the table and left. When I called to explain, he told me all he wanted to hear was that I’d aborted.

I had done that twice with Martin when we dated. I swore I wasn’t going to do it again, no matter what. I didn’t know how many times I had to keep getting rid of those who came. I told him I was going to have the baby, and it was alright if he didn’t want to be part of raising the child. I swore I would never use the child to defame him or demand anything from him. He still said no. He wasn’t meant to have a child, so I shouldn’t have it.

I ghosted him. He could only visit me in secret. I took those opportunities away, and when I had the chance, I travelled to be with my sister. This pregnancy became the best-kept secret project of my life. I didn’t tell a soul about it until it started showing. When the questions started coming, I ignored them. The only person I gave an explanation to was my sister. I trust that girl with my soul.

She called it a “fucked-up situation,” but she didn’t judge me. Instead, she supported me in keeping the secret and helped me carry the child to term. It was a girl. I texted Father Thaddeus. I told him it was a girl. He sent a long voice note warning me never to text him or talk about the baby with him.

I replied, “Just a heads-up, and that’s all.”

I stayed with my sister. My mom came to visit, but my dad didn’t. He warned that until he knew the father of the baby, he wouldn’t have any role to play in the child’s life. It was only me and my sister taking care of the baby, two inexperienced mothers struggling to find the best way to bathe a baby and figure out what to do to put her to sleep.

I didn’t notice the illness early. When she cried, I thought she was just being a baby. When she didn’t suckle my breast, I thought she was disappointed that I could only give her breast milk. Until one morning, I saw her eyes had turned completely yellow, and so had her feet. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t take my breast either.

I quickly rushed her to the hospital, and before my sister could come around to see us, she was pronounced dead.

I said, “No, my baby is alive. She was when I brought her here, so what are you telling me?”

They started giving me medical jargon and told me she would have been alive if I had brought her in earlier.

“So it’s my fault my baby died? You’re now blaming me when she died in your hands?”

My sister came to meet me fighting. She held me back. She whispered that it was okay. “You did your best.”

She bundled me up and took me away. I was wailing loudly like the band players at the walls of Jericho. I told my sister, “Why is it that everything I grow to love is eventually taken away from me?”

She answered, “Maybe we should learn to love less since everything ends.”

I texted Father, “She died yesterday. You know who. Just a heads-up.”

I Called My Girlfriend And Another Man Answered The Phone

He called. He sounded exasperated, and then I heard tears in his voice when he said sorry. I was confused. I thought he would be happy. I thought he would jubilate.

He said, “I’d come to accept the reality of my status as a father, but I was a coward. Please forgive me.”

We mourned together for days. We buried her in a little grave downtown, but my heartbreak and pain couldn’t be buried with her. I still call her by name. Thaddeus still calls. It looks like he only knows me when my heart breaks. They say healing may take forever, so I take it one day at a time.

—Fidelia 

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