The Cradle With a Crack

—A repetitive dream foretold the unimaginable tragedy that awaited

Pure as white, a dove set free in the night - Photo by Nelly Aran from Pexels

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“How can you give the child his last name!”

My father yelled, struggling to get the words out under his familial stutter. Tension cut through the air in the absence of my defence. Silence was my only friend in those lonely days, simultaneously, my worst enemy when all I wanted to say was:

“Leave me be and let me do what’s best for my unborn daughter.”

In the country I live, our culture has a deep-seated memory of shame embroiled in the act of birthing a child out of wedlock.

Even though it has become fashionable in other areas, all I felt was disgust from my father.

Similarly, it’s legal but strongly frowned upon to give your child the lastname of their father if you’re not wed.

Buried under societal and parental expectations, my strength was wavering. I had much fear for my father. His temper was that of a vamished brown bear awakened too soon from its slumber.

As quick as lightning my mother came to my rescue, which was an unspoken pact we had born from my days as a toddler: