I wait. I look up. I notice the upper right corner of the room, where the former green paint colour peeks through. The painter must have missed that spot when he was whitewashing this room. I wonder who formerly owned this room and what it was used for. I hope it was once a happier room.

She opens the door with a clipboard in hand. White coat. White shoes. The epitome of professionalism and neutrality.

“Hi…” She says. I wince as she draws out the simple word, her eyes unblinking. She knows. She knows what I need to know more than anything.

I just nod stiffly. It’s all I can mange.

“So…” She pauses. Torturing me.

I wait.

She sits down. Smiles a tight little smile, and folds her hands on top of her clipboard. I notice her  hands are oddly tan for February. Doctors can afford vacations I suppose. Her tan hands rest on that clipboard. The clipboard which in this moment is my everything.

She exhales.

I inhale. I hold my breath.


“We have the results. I, unfortunately, have to tell you that in light of these results…this process is going to be more difficult for you.” She flattens her hands on top of the clipboard.

I tell myself to breathe out. I don’t.

“Now, while this isn’t the news you wanted to hear, we can now really look into your other options.”

This process…other options.

I open my mouth to speak and shaky breath comes out.

“So I’m…” I can’t say it. Can’t can’t can’t.

“I’m very sorry. But, yes. You are.”

It’s over. Everything. My everything was on that clipboard and now it’s all over. I stare at those white walls, devoid of life. Like me.

My eyes fill with tears. Damn it. Don’t do this. Not here. Not in this bleak white room.

“Would you like a tissue?” She asks.

I take the little white square and hide my face in it.

“Now. Just because natural conception won’t happen, there’s no reason you can’t still have a child.” She smiles that tight smile again as I lower the tissue.


“Adoption is of course one direction…”

As I turn to throw the tissue in the waste bin I see it. A picture of you.

My heart stops. I look into your eyes. It’s just a poster, but I know it’s you. Well, not you exactly. You might not even be born yet. But in that face I see someone like you, like what you could be. A baby. My baby. Smiling in bright yellow. And all of a sudden I see you again. Really see you. My future baby smiling back at me.

It’s not over. I won’t let it be over.

I will find you. Just not in the place I thought.

But oh, will I love you.

I turn back to the doctor, who seems worried about my silence. I force a thin smile. As she hands me brochures I clutch them desperately. I stare with all of my focus and all of my heart at the upper right corner of this otherwise colourless room. The green paint that someone missed stares down at me. I breathe in. 


By Ashley Foy  ||  Featured Image by Alexandra Pelletier   |  Featuring artwork  by Kristin Soh 


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Ashley Foy

“To BE means to never give up. On ourselves, on the future, or on each other. Keep trying, keep hoping, and keep writing!”