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I got pregnant in tenth grade, and my mom took me to school so everyone could watch me fall...
But when the baby’s father denied even knowing me, the envelope the principal was holding began to tremble in her hands.
I was fifteen, wearing a blue uniform, worn-out shoes, and hiding a positive test inside my math notebook. I found it at six in the morning, before my mom yelled that we were already late. That day, I didn’t eat breakfast. That day, I stopped being a child.
At school, everyone talked about me before I even opened my mouth.
— There goes the pregnant girl.
— Poor parents.
— She probably doesn’t even know who the father is.
I walked with my backpack pressed against my chest, as if that could hide the secret growing inside me.
The father had a name.
His name was Mateo Rivas.
Son of a construction company owner.
Captain of the soccer team.
The boy who called me “my love” on WhatsApp and “classmate” in the hallways.
The first time I told him I was pregnant, he turned pale. He didn’t hug me. He didn’t ask if I was scared. He just looked around and pulled me behind the school cafeteria.
— Delete everything, he whispered.
— Everything what?
— The messages. The photos. The notes. Everything.
I felt my throat tighten.
— Mateo, it’s your baby.
His face changed. He was no longer the boy who bought me snacks after school. He was someone else. Cold. Calculating.
— Don’t say that out loud.
That afternoon, his mother came to my house.
