YOU CAN’T TAKE MY BABY…” 
I got pregnant in tenth grade, and my mom drove me to school like I was on display. Like I was already broken.
I was fifteen. Wearing a blue uniform, scuffed shoes, clutching a math notebook that hid the positive test. Six in the morning, the smell of burnt toast from our tiny kitchen still in my nose. That day, I didn’t eat breakfast. That day, I stopped being a child.
Whispers followed me down the hall before I even opened my mouth.
— There goes the pregnant girl.
— Poor parents.
— Bet she doesn’t even know who the father is.
I pressed my backpack against my chest, trying to hide the secret growing inside me.
The father had a name. Mateo Rivas.
Son of a construction company owner. Captain of the soccer team. The boy who called me “my love” on WhatsApp but “classmate” in the hallways.
The first time I told him, he went pale. Didn’t hug me. Didn’t ask if I was scared. He just pulled me behind the cafeteria.
— Delete everything, he whispered.
— Everything what?
— The messages. The photos. The notes. Everything.
I felt my throat tighten.
— Mateo, it’s your baby.
His face changed. The boy who bought me snacks after school vanished. In his place stood a stranger: cold, calculating.
— Don’t say that out loud.
That afternoon, his mother arrived. Mrs. Rebeca Rivas. Expensive heels. Designer bag. Strong perfume. My mom welcomed her, expecting a civil conversation.
She placed a yellow envelope on the table.
— Fifty thousand pesos, she said, for your daughter to change schools and stop “making things up.”
My mom didn’t touch it. My dad? He slammed it on the floor.
— My daughter is not for sale.
I wanted to cry with relief. But Mrs. Rebeca smiled.
— Then get ready. Because my son won’t take responsibility for a girl with no future.
No future. That’s what she called me. As if my baby were already a stain. As if my belly were shame, not life.
The next morning, my dad didn’t speak at breakfast. My mom brushed my hair harder than usual. We arrived at school, and I understood why.
A meeting.
Principal. Counselor. Mateo’s mother. My parents. Mateo, sitting in the back, eyes dry, uniform perfect.
I walked in trembling.
— Sit down, Valeria, the principal said.
I didn’t sit. I couldn’t.
Mrs. Rebeca spoke first.
— My son is being falsely accused. This girl wants to ruin his reputation because he didn’t want to be her boyfriend.
My mom squeezed my hand.
— That’s not true.
Mateo lifted his head and destroyed me without touching me.
— I was never with her.
The room froze.
