Please God, kill my children before they are born
The midwife handed her the baby. She took the tiny thing in her arms and stared at him. He was beautiful. For a fleeting moment, she felt unbound joy. He was a part of her. He was… her focus shifted. He was nothing but a hungry mouth to feed like the eight others that awaited her at the house.
Or if one could even call it a house. Two shabby rooms with a makeshift stove and a bathroom next to them was home sweet home. The ceiling leaked, the doors creaked while the paint was in tatters. Her husband had not been able to afford the repair in ages. From clothing to food, everything was scarce, except for the number of children.
She had stopped feeling the motherly joy five children ago. The motherly joy turned to pure agony when she had to watch them sleep on empty stomachs, night after night. Only when another woman in labour at the midwife’s house had told her that she could stop the whole thing by undergoing a little surgery, she mustered the courage to bring it up to her husband. That was the first time he had slapped her.
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