They ask me to sit.
The office smells like old books and polish, too clean for the kind of conversation about to happen. Across from me are three men in white collars and grim expressions. They don't look at me the way professors used to—like I was the brightest mind in the room. No. Today, I'm just a scandal waiting to happen.
Father Eladio clears his throat. "Samantha... this isn't easy for us."
I nod, folding my hands in my lap. My nails are bitten down. I tried to look decent—white blouse, long skirt, no trace of the morning sickness that gnawed at me on the ride here.
"You've always represented St. Isidore's values with excellence," he says. "Top of your class, a beacon for our female students..."
He pauses. I know what's coming.
"But this situation—your condition—raises concerns about the example you're setting. As a Catholic institution, we are held to a certain... moral standard."
My condition. They won't even say the word.
I glance down at the tiny swell of my belly. Barely there, but enough for rumors to spread like ash in wind. Henry's name hasn't been mentioned, of course. Boys like him don't lose scholarships. Boys like him get to disappear.
"So, you're saying I can't be valedictorian because I'm pregnant?"
Father Ramon, the younger priest, leans forward, voice gentler. "It's not a punishment, Samantha. We're just trying to preserve the integrity of the school."
I want to laugh. Or maybe scream. Instead, I nod again, slow and deliberate. "Of course, Father."
They think I'm taking it well. That's what good girls do. Swallow the shame, take the fall.
When they hand me the formal letter—signed, sealed, and already prepared—I don't read it. I just fold it into my bag and stand.
"May I be excused?"
Father Eladio looks relieved. "Yes, child. We're praying for you."
I walk out. Every step echoes down the polished hallway. I pass framed portraits of alumni with bright futures, nuns with serene smiles, scripture carved into the marble.
"Blessed are the pure of heart," one says.
I keep walking.
Back in my room, I close the door and lock it. My bag drops to the floor with a soft thud, and I sink onto the bed like my bones forgot how to hold me.
I don't cry right away. I sit still, counting the cracks in the ceiling, breathing through the tight ache in my chest.
Then I pull out the ultrasound photo from between the pages of my notebook. 10 weeks. A blurry shape that somehow holds my entire future. I press it against my lips.
"I'm still going to make something of myself," I whisper to her. Or him. To them. "They don't get to write the ending. I do."
And for the first time today, I let myself cry. Quietly, fiercely.
Because they can take the scholarship. They can take the honors.
But they can't take this baby.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkhzfeXnwNK
And they sure as hell can't take my fire.
I lie back on the bed and reach for my phone. My fingers hesitate before unlocking it.
Henry.
His name is still saved with a heart, like a leftover scar. I should've changed it weeks ago—after the cold conversations, the shift in tone, the nights he didn't even bother replying. But part of me—some stupid, hopeful part—thought he'd come around. That once he knew, once he really knew, he'd step up.
I open our last thread. My last message was four days ago:19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrgmoRvXx6V
"I heard you're still in town. Can we talk? Please."
No reply.
I start typing again. Something short. Not too emotional. Just something he can't ignore.
"They kicked me out of the scholarship program. Because of the pregnancy. I thought you should know."
I stare at the blinking cursor, thumb hovering over the send button. Then I hit it.
Sent.
I wait. A minute passes. Then five.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyngsDjihsj
The typing bubble never shows up.
I turn off the screen and toss the phone across the bed.
He saw it. I know he did. He always reads fast. Maybe he's with her—Trina. Maybe he saw my name light up and rolled his eyes.
Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore.
I wipe my face and sit up. The ache in my chest doesn't go away, but it hardens. Like it's trying to become something solid—something I can stand on.
I don't need him to respond.
I don't need him to care.
Because this story? It's mine now. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else write it for me.
19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuJU7LNfpXM
