Chapter 3 Memories

• The rain was falling and beating against the frosted glass windows. Nervously, I bit my lower lip and bounced one of my feet against the floor. The wait was killing me and only about two minutes had passed, according to my watch, of the five that should be waited.
• "God, let it be negative, please," I pray, because at this moment we are not in a position to maintain a pregnancy and even less so, everything that comes with a baby.
• A lightning bolt strikes and the light, plus the powerful thunder that is heard instantly, makes me jump in fright. I spin in place, with my arms crossed at chest level, asking over and over again that my delay is only due to the stress of all these past months.
• I look at my watch again and it's already been five minutes, with my heart pounding in my throat, now I hesitate to go to the bathroom and see the result at once. I bite the inside of my cheek and twist my intertwined fingers, trying to muster up strength, but it's not that simple.
• I take a deep breath and go to the bathroom. I open the door and as I approach the small cup containing my urine, I close my eyes. I feel with my fingers and carefully, I take the test with one hand.
• I sigh before opening my eyes. And when I do, my eyes well up and I can't see. Two thick tears fall and are followed by others. As I stare fixedly at the thin cardboard indicating two lines, two dark pink lines, well defined.
• I fall to my knees in the bathroom and my chin touches my chest. I cry. Because this was not planned and it is definitely not the best time. Because we can barely support ourselves, how could we take on the responsibility of someone else. Because we practically depend on the little I earn and I know that as soon as it is known that I am pregnant, I will be fired. It was a requirement that I accepted when I signed the contract, at that moment I was desperate to get a job and I did not expect this news at all.
• "Amaia?" I hear Ernesto's voice when he opens the door to our small room.
• My crying deepens and he comes to my feet, alarmed. I lift my head to look him in the eyes and in his, my suffering is reflected, even though he doesn't know what is happening to me. It has always been like this, so connected, feeling in our skin what the other feels.
• "What's wrong, love? Tell me, please," His voice is a painful, worried plea. He cups my face with his two hands and looks me in the eyes, before adding, "Whatever is happening to you, we can overcome it."
• The hope in his beautiful and expressive blue eyes fills me with light for a moment. I trust. I trust him and his words. I give him a sweet smile, even though I have little desire to do so. But Ernesto is my love, he is my friend, together we can overcome everything.
• I open my hands, which covered the test, and look down. He follows me.
• And when he sees the test between my fingers, he stops breathing.
• "Tell me that didn't come back positive, please," he begs, standing up and pointing at the object.
• I close my eyes and sigh, I nod. I don't need to see him to imagine his expression, or his gestures. I know that now he is running his hands through his hair, desperate, and that his ears are red with indignation. Then one hand on his hip and the other on his forehead, to walk non-stop in the confined space.
• "Amaia, we can barely support ourselves as it is, how are we supposed to manage now?" he asks, in the midst of his distress. "I thought I was taking care of you."
• It's not his words, it's the tone, that makes me lift my head and stand up. As if this were solely my fault. I square my shoulders and decide to defend myself. I know there are reasons to be upset, worried about what's to come, but it's not the time to assign blame.
• "Children aren't made by themselves, Ernesto."
• Hearing the coldness in my voice, he turns to look at me. For a moment, I see that young man who, among his life goals, considers being a father. Just like me.
• I know him and I can see in his body language that he wants to refute my statement, because he doesn't believe it was a mistake on his part, but he holds back. He knows the kind of relationship we have and it's not the time to start a discussion, it's time to focus on what's to come and not on what can't be changed.
• "Maybe..." he considers replying to me, I narrow my eyes, urging him to think carefully about what he will say. He opens his mouth and then closes it, turns around and sighs. "Maybe I should go, I'll be back in a while."
• He walks to the door and I don't stop him. I know that there are many things that need to be reflected upon and the tension of the moment won't allow the conversation to end on good terms. But his reaction hurts me, I can't hide it.
• It's not the best news, and certainly not the most expected, but for a moment, we could imagine together what it would be like to have a baby. A child who would be the fruit of our love, of the immediate attraction we felt for each other from the first time we saw each other.
• That night, Ernesto didn't sleep in our small room. He came back in the early hours reeking of alcohol, fell onto the bed fully clothed in his dirty clothes from the day and tried to hug me. For a moment, I thought he would be completely drunk, I hated it when he got like that, but I was surprised by his clear and hoarse voice when he whispered something unexpected in my ear.
• "You will be an excellent mother. I have no doubts about that."
• At no point did he talk about himself, or the expectations he had with this news, not even about a hypothetical dream where we could give everything to that daughter growing in my belly. Nothing. And that made me think, but then I dismissed it. He would also be an excellent father. I had no doubts.
• Until it was the complete opposite.