Chapter 42 Chapter Forty-Two
Charity didn’t sleep that night.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands trembling, mind racing in circles she couldn’t escape. Anjola paced the room, whispering prayers under her breath even though she wasn’t sure who she was praying to—or for.
“If you don’t end it now, Charity… it will swallow you.” Anjola said, voice low.
Charity pressed her palms to her face. “I know. I know. I just… I didn’t think it would get this far.”
But it had.
Her mother had started discussing antenatal appointments. Leon’s parents had asked her to send updates. People were already congratulating her online. She couldn’t breathe under the weight of the lie anymore.
She lifted her head, eyes glassy. “I need to end it… but I can’t just say it was a mistake. They’ll ask for proof. They’ll question everything.”
Anjola stopped pacing.
“Then we create proof.”
Charity looked at her.
“You mean…?”
“Yes,” Anjola said, voice steady. “A miscarriage. It sounds horrible, but it’s the only clean ending. Something that explains why no one ever saw bumps or scans.”
Her heart thudded.
“But how?”
Anjola hesitated, then sat beside her. “We plan it. Quietly. You ‘lose’ the baby at night.
I’m with you. We get something small—something that can pass as medical discharge proof. No one needs to see you actually in pain. Just the aftermath.”
Charity’s breath shook. “You’ll help me?”
“I’m your friend,” Anjola whispered. “Even for crazy things like this.”
Charity lunged forward and hugged her tightly. Desperately.
And so the plan began.
The next night, Charity stayed at her apartment, claiming she needed rest. She told everyone she was turning off her phone. Leon didn’t question it—he simply replied, “Rest well.”
It stung.
Around 1AM, she lay in bed with the room intentionally dark, the air heavy with staged tragedy. Anjola set everything up—the water, tissues, the discarded wrapper on the floor, even the intentionally smeared makeup to show she’d “cried” earlier.
Around 3AM, Charity let out a sharp, rehearsed gasp.
“Anjolaaa…”
Anjola rushed in immediately, playing her part. “What? What is—Charity?! Ah! Jesus!”
Charity curled forward, clutching her stomach, shaking even though she wasn’t in pain—just terrified.
“It’s happening,” Charity whispered dramatically.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Anjola said, kneeling beside her. “Just breathe. I’m here.”
No neighbours heard.
No one saw.
Nothing happened—nothing real, anyway.
But the performance was enough.
By dawn, they had a fake medical slip printed by a contact of Anjola’s cousin. A short statement. Bleeding. Early pregnancy loss. Recommended rest.
Clean. Believable.
Finished.
Charity cried when she held it—partly from guilt, partly from relief, partly because now she had to live this lie too.
Anjola touched her shoulder. “At least now… it’s over.”
Charity nodded, but her stomach twisted.
The news spread fast.
By noon, Leon’s mother was already calling. His father’s voice was somber behind hers. His sister, Ama, was crying softly in the background.
“Oh, my dear,” his mother said to him, “this is so heartbreaking. We must go and see her family. Today.”
Leon didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
He kept replaying the moment he found out—the numbness in his chest, the strange tightening in his throat. He hadn’t wanted a baby. He wasn’t ready. He was tangled in something else—someone else.
But the idea that he could have had one… and lost it?
It did something to him.
Something confusing.
Something painful.
Something he didn’t understand.
He dressed quietly. Followed his parents into the car. Said nothing the entire drive.
At Charity’s family house, the mood was heavy—fabricated, but convincingly so.
Charity sat between her mother and aunt, wrapped in a shawl like she was recovering from surgery. Her eyes were red from rubbing them nonstop for the last five minutes before Leon arrived.
When Leon walked in, she looked up at him slowly.
He froze.
She looked… broken.
Or at least she looked like she wanted him to believe she was.
“Oh, Charity…” his mother said, rushing to hug her, tears already falling. “We’re so sorry.”
His father placed flowers on the table. “Be strong. These things happen.”
Anjola hugged her tightly. “You didn’t deserve this.”
Charity sniffed, lowering her head. “I just… I just don’t understand why God allowed it.”
Leon stood last, unsure, awkward, eyes shifting away. Then he finally stepped closer.
“Charity,” he said quietly.
She lifted her face, tears slipping deliberately. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” he asked softly.
“I know you didn’t want this to happen. I know you didn’t want to be a father now… but I still feel so guilty. Like I failed.”
Something in him tugged.
He didn’t love her.
He didn’t want this.
But he wasn’t heartless.
He exhaled, sat beside her, and took her hand gently.
“You didn’t fail,” he said. “None of this is your fault.”
She sniffed again, leaning slightly into him.
His mother watched them with soft eyes.
His father nodded approvingly.
Charity felt it—the shift.
The closeness.
The sympathy.
She swallowed.
This might be her chance.
Later, when Leon’s family left and he stayed behind a bit to help her settle, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
He didn’t move away.
He didn’t hug her either.
He just… stayed.
And for Charity, that was enough.
Later that evening, she made a post.
A picture of her hand in Leon’s.
A white floral background.
A long caption with “heartbroken,” “God gives and takes,” and “please pray for us.”
Comments poured in.
Messages flooded her DMs.
People reposted.
People pitied her.
She soaked it in.
But when Leon saw the post, something twisted inside him.
It felt… wrong.
Too public.
Too dramatic.
Too curated.
Like a campaign.
He stared at the caption again.
Why does this feel like a publicity stunt?
He clenched his jaw.
But then he sighed.
She was grieving—at least as far as he knew. If this was her way of coping, he had no right to judge.
He let it go.
Or tried to.
Across the city, Felicity scrolled past Charity’s post accidentally.
Her breath paused.
Her eyes widened.
Leon… holding Charity’s hand?
Her stomach dropped in a way she wished it wouldn’t.
But she forced herself to swipe away.
She wasn’t getting involved.
She wasn’t asking questions.
She wasn’t going back.
Not again.