The white lights above me buzzed like static in my head.
I blinked.
Once. Twice.
The ceiling wasn't the NICU's. It was the hospital's E.R.
I was on a gurney, my cheek sticking to the crinkled paper beneath me. My limbs felt heavy. My chest was sore. And yet—what hurt most was the ache I couldn't name. The one blooming between my ribs and behind my eyes. Like my body was trying to cry again, but had nothing left.
I turned slightly.
"Selin?" Marianne's voice cracked like she had been crying. "Selin, can you hear me?"
Shirin was by her side, her face pale and hands trembling as she clutched a water bottle I didn't ask for. She looked so small despite being taller than both of us.
"You fainted," Shirin whispered, like saying it too loud would make it worse.
"I—" My throat was dry. My tongue felt thick. "I couldn't... I couldn't breathe."
Marianne tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Her voice was soft, but steady. "Selin... talk to us. What happened?"
I hesitated. My breath hitched.
Shirin leaned in from the other side. "Please," she said, voice trembling. "We're here. Just tell us what they said. Tell us what broke you like that."
My lip quivered.
I turned my face away, ashamed, like the truth might poison the air.
But they deserved to know. I had been quiet for too long—smiling when I was shattered. Laughing through blood in my throat.
So I told them.
"They ran the last round of tests this morning," I began, my voice hoarse. "The doctor came in with the results. I thought—maybe it was something fixable. Something we could still work around. But she just looked at me... with this pity in her eyes."
A sharp breath.
"She told me I won't be able to carry a child. Not now. Not ever. The cancer and the treatments—they took that from me."
The room stilled.
I could feel both of them holding their breath.
"I asked her twice—Are you sure? I begged her to recheck, to say it was a mistake. But she wasn't wrong. She was never wrong."
Tears burned again, fresh despite the flood earlier. I looked at Marianne, then Shirin.
"I've always dreamed of having kids. Of being a mom. I used to imagine them clinging to my legs in the kitchen. I used to imagine them whispering secrets into my hair. I wanted someone to call me mama. I wanted to feel needed like that. Loved like that."
I broke. "And now I don't get that. I don't get to hold someone who's a part of me. I don't get to hear tiny footsteps running toward me. I don't get to be anyone's mother."
Marianne's hand flew to her mouth.
Shirin covered her heart like the words physically struck her.
"I lost something I never even got the chance to hold," I whispered. "And I don't know how to grieve that."
The room fell into a silence that felt sacred—like a chapel after the last prayer.
Marianne leaned forward and pulled me into her arms. Shirin followed. We sat like that—three girls in a sterile room, stitched together by pain, love, and silence.
I stared at the ceiling, still and numb, as the monitors beeped gently around me.
Shirin had gone quiet. Marianne was still holding my hand.
And then, without warning, the words slipped out like a confession I'd been holding since I was a little girl:
"I always wanted to be a mom."
Marianne's hand tightened around mine, but I kept going. I had to.
"Not just because it's expected or... or because of tradition. But because I dreamed of it. I dreamed of having someone crawl into my bed at six in the morning just to cuddle. I dreamed of tiny feet tapping on the floor, racing toward me with scraped knees and wild stories. I wanted someone to cry for me when they were scared. To run into my arms. To call me mama like it was the safest word in the world."
My voice cracked on the last syllable.
"I didn't want a fairytale. I just wanted... that. A small, messy, warm kind of love."
Marianne wiped a tear from her face. She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
"And now..." I swallowed hard. "Now that dream is gone. And it's not like losing a house or a car or a ring—it's losing a part of me I've been building since I was a kid. It feels like the funeral of a future I never got to live."
Shirin sat down beside me, eyes wide with tears. "Selin..."
"I'm mourning someone who never existed," I whispered. "Someone I never even got to meet—but who I loved anyway. My child. My children. They were real to me. And now they're just... gone."
The room went quiet except for the distant hum of machines.
And that silence said everything we couldn't.
The sun had already descended from the sky.
The room was dim. A slow, rhythmic beep filled the space, keeping time with my breathing.
But here, it was just me and Marianne.
Shirin had gone home hours ago.
Visiting hours had ended, but Marianne never moved from the recliner she'd dragged beside my bed. She stayed
She always did.
She sat cross-legged beside me on the hospital bed, her arms wrapped gently around my shoulders as if holding me together through sheer will.
I stared at the wall, eyes swollen from crying. "You should go home," I murmured. "It's late."
"I'm not leaving you like this." Her tone was calm but unshakeable. "Not tonight."
Silence settled again.
Then, in a cracked voice, I whispered, "I don't know how to survive this."
Marianne pulled the blanket up over both of us and leaned her head against mine.
"You will survive this," she said. "You're allowed to fall apart right now. You're allowed to scream and cry and feel everything. But I swear to you—this won't be the end of your story."
I didn't answer.
"Selin," she continued, "there are so many ways to be a mother. You can still adopt. You can foster. You can give a child the love you've always dreamed of giving."
"I know," I said hollowly. "And I'd love any child. I know I would."
"But...?"
I turned my face toward her, tears pooling again.
"I wanted one of my own," I whispered. "One that looked like me and the man I love. One that had our nose. His laugh. My stubbornness. His hands. One that came from us."
I pressed my hand gently to my stomach, fingers curling inward, like I could somehow hold the emptiness.
"Did you know…" My voice trembled. "Did you know that a mother and her child bond the most when the baby's still in the womb? That their heartbeats sync? That the baby learns her voice from inside? That connection—that—was what I wanted most."
I let out a choked breath.
"I wanted to sing to them before they were even born. To feel them kick when I read. I wanted to know that I was their first home."
Marianne's lips parted, and her eyes glistened. She swallowed hard before responding.
"I know," she whispered, brushing a tear from my cheek. "And I'm so sorry that dream was taken from you. It's not fair. None of this is. But Selin, listen to me…"
She cupped my face so I couldn't look away.
"That bond you talked about? That deep, sacred love? That still exists inside you. You still have that to give. Whether it's to a baby born from your body or your heart—your love is real. That connection can still happen. You haven't lost the ability to be someone's safe place."
"But it won't be the same," I said quietly.
"No," Marianne agreed. "It won't. It'll be different. But different doesn't mean lesser. And you don't have to let this destroy your hope. Because even now—even in this moment—you are still a mother. Just one waiting for her story to take a new shape."
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since the diagnosis… I let myself believe her.
Even just a little.