At an inflection point in my life, my doctor looked at me, her face a mask of clinical detachment, and said: "You are unable to be a mother."
I stared at her. Her eyes were cold, stark, and dry as she delivered the verdict, yet for some strange reason, I felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction hidden behind her professional gaze. She continued talking, her voice fading into the background as she explained the medical reasons, but at that exact moment, I stopped hearing. A sudden, temporary deafness enveloped me. The only sound remaining was the roaring echo of blood rushing through my veins, pumping from a deep wound in my soul. I took the medical report in silence and walked out without uttering a single word.
On my way back, I passed the plant shop that I walked by every single day. Inside, there was a purple plant I had secretly named "Pinky." I always felt the name suited its mysterious, vibrant hue. Determined to finally buy it, I stepped inside and stood close, admiring its leaves. Behind the plant was a mirrored glass wall. As I looked up, I caught a glimpse of a woman in her late thirties. Her hair was a disheveled mess, her eyes bloodshot and strained behind thick glasses, and her heavy lips resembled overgrown fungi.
I shuddered. Could this woman really be me?
Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of distortion, I turned and rushed out of the shop without buying anything, leaving the shopkeeper staring after me in utter bewilderment.
I finally reached my house at the end of the street. The air inside was thick with the scent of my husband’s cologne, mingled with a painfully familiar aroma: cinnamon pastries. It was the unmistakable sign that my mother-in-law was visiting.
My husband is a strikingly handsome man—perhaps too handsome to love a woman who neglected her appearance as much as I did. Yet, for some reason, he loved me madly. Or at least, that was what I had always chosen to believe. My mother-in-law rushed to greet me as if I were the guest in her home. She wrapped her arms around me in what appeared to be a warm, maternal embrace, but just like every other time, that hug brought nothing but a profound sense of humiliation I could never quite articulate.
Releasing me, she peered into my face. "What is wrong, my dear? You look utterly exhausted."
I pulled away with a hint of harshness. "I am not tired. I am perfectly fine," I replied. But as the words left my lips, my fingers began to tremble violently, and I pushed her back with a subtle flash of resentment.
My husband’s mouth dropped open in shock, looking at me as if I had suddenly lost my mind. Without a word, I threw the medical report into his lap, marched into my room, and packed my clothes. As I walked out of the house, a part of me desperately waited for him to follow me, to stop me from what I was about to do, or to say anything at all. Instead, he chose to stay in the living room, whispering and murmuring with his mother.
I took a taxi to the nearest, cheapest hotel I could find. I took a long, freezing shower to numb the pain, and then emailed my manager requesting a week of unpaid leave. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the approval came almost instantly.
Sitting alone in the dim room, I began to contemplate this massive shift in my life and how things would unfold from here. Since I had a stable income, I could rent a modest room. And since I was going to file for divorce, I would have plenty of time to take on a part-time afternoon job. I began frantically jotting down my survival plan in my private notebook until, from sheer exhaustion, I drifted into a deep sleep over the pages.
Suddenly, the silence was broken. I heard the wind humming a soft, gentle melody, kissing the windowpanes with apparent warmth. But slowly, the humming twisted into a wild, frantic shrieking. The windows began to shake violently, as if terrified of an approaching entity. Instead of the dim blue light of the hotel room, a suffocating, surreal purple glow flooded the entire space.
Through the violet haze, a little girl appeared. Her hair was cut short, styled like a young boy's. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I struggled to catch my breath.
"Who are you?" I gasped out.
She looked at me with wide eyes. "I am little Rama."
"Are you... me?"
She nodded slowly.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Don't you remember me?" she whispered. "Don't you remember how neglected you were growing up in a broken family? Don't you remember how much you wished someone would care about your appearance, your education, your food, and your clothes?" She paused for a moment, her eyes drilling into mine. "Don't you remember how desperately you wanted to be a writer?"
Tears welled in my eyes, and I nodded, unable to speak. I remembered it all.
Then, she looked at me with an aching innocence. "Can you... be a mama?"
I nodded vigorously as tears poured down my face like a waterfall.
In an instant, little Rama vanished. The suffocating purple light faded away, and the wild wind died down into nothingness. I woke up gasping, startled out of this profound nightmare.
The next morning, I sat in a beautiful, sunlit cafe, sipping my coffee and enjoying a light breakfast. The nightmare had changed something deep within me.
My first stop was a hair salon, where I completely transformed my hairstyle. That same day, I visited an ophthalmologist to begin a treatment journey for my vision, determined to get rid of those thick glasses forever. Within a few months, I completely shifted my focus toward self-care. I rented a tiny, private apartment—a sanctuary where no one from my past could find me—and officially filed for separation from my husband.
I spent nearly all my savings on these personal transformations, but I quickly returned to work and took an afternoon job to compensate for the financial strain. At night, I returned to my true passion: writing. It brought me a sense of joy I hadn't felt in a lifetime. I joined cultural clubs, immersed myself in literature, and completed my very first novel.
By the time winter approached, the crisp, cooling air reminded me of little Pinky. The plant had been waiting for me for months, and every time I had passed the shop, I had restrained myself because it was quite expensive.
This time, I walked into the plant shop with absolute certainty. I approached Pinky and lifted it gently, cradling it as if it were a precious newborn. My eyes drifted to the mirrored wall. Reflected back at me was a woman with beautifully styled brown hair, captivating eyes, and a graceful, confident posture.
I walked up to the counter and handed the shopkeeper the money. He smiled warmly at me.
"Do you recognize me?" I asked, testing him.
He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with admiration. "Unfortunately, no. I have never seen such a beautiful face in my shop before."
I smiled, hugged Pinky tightly to my chest, and walked out at a leisurely pace.
My new, modest home was perfectly clean and organized. Every corner bore the gentle, feminine touch of the resurrected Rama—a small flower in a vase here, a delicate angelic figurine there. My beautiful desk was arranged with my books and my laptop; it lacked only one final touch.
I placed Pinky right next to my laptop by the window. Just as I set it down, the doorbell rang. Walking slowly with a wide smile, I opened the door. An elegant man in his forties, looking unmistakably like a courier, stood there. I signed the delivery receipt, took the envelope from his hand, and tore it open.
The letter inside read:
"Congratulations! You have won the Grand Prize for your
novel submitted to the New Writers Competition."
____The End___
Note:
Photo captured by me using Xiaomi Note 8 from my personal home.