“The deepest wounds are not those that bleed, but those that remain unspoken.”
– Rainer Maria Rilke
The shoes lay quietly in my baby bag, small brown ones with white laces waiting to be worn. I held them in my hands, imagining the tiny feet that would one day fill them. They seemed to carry not just promise, but silence, the kind of silence that lingers before life begins.
The pre?labour room was crowded that day, its air thick with anticipation and pain. I had been admitted early, due to certain discomforts, and the doctor didn’t want to take any risks. I was then instructed to do certain exercises to coax my body toward labour. Beside me, separated only by a curtain, another woman writhed in contractions. Her husband hovered near her bed, his face a mixture of fear and hope. I recognized her immediately; Maya. We had often crossed paths during our consultations. Our appointments falling almost at the same time, exchanging brief smiles in the waiting hall. Now, seeing her here, her pain was no longer distant, it was raw and present. They had waited fifteen years for this child, and every breath she took seemed to carry the weight of that long wait.
From behind the curtain, my curiosity betrayed me. I leaned forward, peeking through the narrow gap. Between waves of pain, she clutched her husband’s hand. “The towel… it’s in the bag, ok? You’ll need it to wrap our baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling. Another contraction tore through her. “Don’t look so scared, I’ll be fine. Just stay with me.” and he nodded.
Her words floated across the curtain. I listened, half-comforted, half-terrified, as her excitement painted a picture of the life, she was about to welcome.
But labour is a cruel sculptor. It carves joy into anguish, hope into urgency. Her cries grew sharper, the rhythm of her contractions pounding against the sterile walls. The doctor checked her dilation; eight centimetres, then nine. The air shifted suddenly, a thunder cracking open the calmness.
“The baby has swallowed meconium,” the doctor announced, voice clipped with urgency. “Prepare the OT for caesarean. Call the anaesthetist.”
In seconds, the ward transformed, like warm wind breaking into a storm. The nurse staffs ran, trays clattered, curtains swayed. Maya’s cry echoed through the ward, and I sat frozen, clutching my belly, whispering silent prayers. My exercises forgotten, my heart heavy with fear for Maya, for myself, for the fragile line between life and loss.
That evening, I prayed for her baby. I prayed for mine.
Time lost its meaning. My own labour arrived like a tide, relentless and consuming. Four hours of pain, each contraction a wave crashing against my body, until finally…finally…. I saw my baby’s face. It’s a boy! My baby Boy!
In the ward, as I held my child, I thought of Maya and her newborn. I decided to meet her and the baby before leaving the hospital. Hope stitched itself into my thoughts, even as exhaustion weighed me down.
Two days later, Maya appeared at my ward, her presence unexpected yet gentle. A faint smile trembled at the edges of her lips as she stepped closer.
“How are you?” she asked, her voice soft, almost fragile.
“I’m good,” I said, smiling back, cradling my baby.
Her eyes fell on my child, and I saw it, the shimmers of tears rising, the battle to keep them from spilling. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of socks and shoes. With trembling hands, she dressed my baby, slipping the shoes onto tiny feet. I was puzzled. The gesture was tender, but something in it carried a weight I couldn’t name.
“I am leaving today”, she said quietly. “I thought I would stop by to meet you and your little one.”
I gave a smile and nodded but nothing I said. There was a deep silence between each words exchanged.
As she turned to leave, I asked, almost forgetting, “And your baby? Is it a boy or girl?”
She paused, her lips curving into a grieving smile. “I think God was jealous,” she whispered, “jealous enough to take my baby back the moment He gave him to me.”
Her words fell like stones into the silence. She didn’t explain further. She didn’t cry. She simply walked away, her husband beside her, carrying a grief too heavy for words.
I looked down at my child, at the shoes now hugging his feet. They were not mine. They were hers. Shoes bought with fifteen years of hope, shoes meant for a baby who would never wear them.
And in that moment, Hemingway’s silence lived again. ‘For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.’
But here, they were worn, worn by another child, carrying both life and loss in each step that would one day follow.
I held my baby closer, the shoes pressing against my palm. They were heavy, not with weight, but with meaning. The ward hummed again with new cries, fading away the silences.
