On January 10, in South Bronx, winter was harsh and unforgiving. The homeless were freezing, and people rushed to their homes wrapped in several layers just to stay warm. Voices echoed in the streets, teeth gritted against the biting cold.
But inside the old St. Gabriel Medical Center, silence ruled—broken only by the echo of nurses' footsteps, the sharp scent of antiseptic, and the distant cries of newborn babies.
In one of the dimly lit rooms was Maria, an eighteen-year-old girl whose world had crumbled too early. Pregnant and alone, she lay on the bed, facing the cruelty of love wrapped in beauty. She remembered his face—Lucas, the despicably handsome boy who deceived her. Despite her parents' warnings, she followed her heart, and it led her here.
If only she had known.
If only she could turn back time.
Deep in thought, the sharp pain of contraction hit her again, jolting her back to reality. It was a pain she had never known before—one that seemed to carry the bitterness of the entire world in a single breath. Out of despair, she cursed the day she met Lucas, the day she said yes to him, and the day she gave herself to him.
Her breathing grew ragged, her life hanging by a thread. Then suddenly—a cry. A baby's cry, soft yet powerful, piercing through the tension in the room.
The nurses exchanged relieved smiles, marveling at the child's beauty.
"What a beautiful baby," one said in awe.
Another nurse glanced closely and corrected her gently, "He's a boy, not a girl."
Still, they couldn't stop staring. In all their years of work, they had rarely seen such a strikingly beautiful newborn. Eagerly, they turned toward Maria to let her see him.
But as they brought the baby close, Maria's eyes widened with shock and rage. She pushed him away, almost sending him tumbling from the nurse's arms.
"I hate him!" she screamed from the depths of her lungs.
The nurses froze. Her voice trembled with pain and bitterness.
"I hate the sight of him," she said again, shaking her head in disbelief. "He looks so much like Lucas…"
She turned her face to the wall, tears burning in her eyes. There was no joy of motherhood in her heart—only a hollow ache and resentment that consumed her entire being.
She remembered when she told Lucas about the pregnancy. She had imagined his joy, his excitement to become a father. But instead, he laughed—a cruel, mocking laugh—and told her she was just one of his many girls.
That memory stung harder than the contractions ever did.
As the nurses carried the crying baby away, Maria closed her eyes, whispering bitterly,
"If only I had listened… if only love wasn't so cruel