“My husband insisted that the girl was just pretending, until I secretly took her to have some tests done. When the doctor looked at the screen, he whispered trembling, ‘There is something alive inside the girl…,’ and my scream tore through the silence of the hospital.”

And in that moment—before the truth was spoken, before the world split open beneath my feet—

I barely remember how I stayed upright when Dr. Mehra closed the door and said the words no mother should ever hear.

“Your daughter is pregnant,” he said.
“Approximately twelve weeks.”

Silence fell. The kind that presses against your skull.

I stared at him, unable to comprehend.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s impossible. She’s fifteen. She hardly goes anywhere except school.”

Anaya broke down, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.

I reached for her, but she pulled away—not from me, I realized, but from the unbearable weight of it all.

Dr. Mehra’s voice softened.
“Because of her age, we are required to involve a social worker. She will need medical and emotional support.”

I nodded mechanically, as if submerged underwater.

A social worker named Neha arrived shortly after. She asked to speak with Anaya alone. I waited in the corridor, pacing, digging my nails into my palms until they left crescent-shaped marks.

Every minute felt like an hour.

When Neha came out, her expression was grave.

“Mrs. Sharma… we need to talk.”

My knees nearly gave way.
“Please. Just tell me.”

She asked me to sit. I didn’t.

“Anaya has disclosed that the pregnancy is not the result of a consensual relationship,” she said gently.
“Someone hurt her. This was not her choice.”

My head spun.
“Who?” I managed to choke out. “Who did this to my child?”

Neha hesitated.
“She wasn’t ready to say his name. But she indicated it was someone she sees regularly. Someone she feared no one would believe her about.”

Fear pooled inside me—cold and heavy.

“Does she feel safe at home?” Neha asked quietly.