[Scene: A quiet apartment. Evening. A woman named MARIA, in her early 30s, sits on the edge of her bed, cradling a small, stuffed bunny. There’s a folded piece of paper on the nightstand — a fertility report. Her phone buzzes beside her with congratulations from family and friends. Her eyes brim with tears.]
Narration (Internal Monologue):
I didn’t mean to lie.
Not at first.
It started with a joke — someone said, “You’re glowing. Are you pregnant?”
And I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled. Maybe because I wanted it to be true.
[Cut to: A week earlier. Maria and her husband sit across from a fertility specialist. The doctor’s voice is kind, but the words land like stone.]
Doctor:
I’m sorry, Maria. The tests confirm… it won’t be possible. You’re infertile.
[Back to present. Maria walks to the bathroom mirror, places a hand over her belly. There’s nothing there — just silence.]
Narration:
I thought if I pretended long enough… the emptiness would go away.
I bought baby books. I even picked out a name.
Not to fool the world — but to feel, for one moment, like I belonged to it.
[Her husband walks in, smiling, holding a tiny onesie he bought that day.]
Husband:
I can’t believe it, love. After everything… we’re really going to have a baby.
[Maria’s lip trembles. She turns away, unable to look him in the eye.]
Narration:
He doesn’t know.
He believes me.
Because he wants it, too.
Because we dreamed of cribs and lullabies and bedtime stories.
[She sinks to the floor, tears falling freely now.]
Narration:
But dreams don’t fill wombs. And love doesn’t fix biology.
I faked the pregnancy… not because I wanted to lie —
but because I wanted to hope.
