My name is Gracie. I’ve been married to Christopher for almost six years with no cry of a child in our home.
There’s no hospital we haven’t visited to examine ourselves. Every doctor says the same thing: “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you are both perfectly well. There is nothing medically wrong with either of you.”
I remember sitting on our expensive Italian leather sofa last Sunday, staring at a blank wall. “Christopher,” I called out, my voice breaking. “What’s the essence of marriage if I can’t give birth? Every time I see my sisters-in-law with their toddlers, my heart bleeds. Am I just a decorated piece of furniture in this house?”
Christopher walked over and knelt beside me, taking my hands in his. His eyes were full of warmth. “Gracie, look at me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a factory for babies. I married you because I love you. Whether a child comes or not, we will stay in this love forever. Please, don’t bother yourself with these thoughts anymore.”
His words were sweet, like honey to a wound, yet the ache stayed deep in my soul.
So that fateful week, I traveled to a convention very far from our mansion. Our company asked me to represent them in a seminar with international people coming. It was a very large, luxurious event held in a city hours away. I spent the day shaking hands, discussing business strategies, and smiling for the cameras, but my mind was heavy.
That evening, after the seminar ended, I looked at my watch. It was already late. “If I drive back now, I won’t reach home until the middle of the night,” I whispered to myself. I decided to sleep over in a hotel instead.
As I drove off and reached a random hotel gate, I parked my car and stepped out.
That was when I saw her—a little girl walking and smiling to herself. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her hair was matted and unkempt.
“Oh, Lord,” I sighed, watching her from a distance. “What really happened to this girl? Where are her parents? How is she a lunatic at such a young age? This world is just too wicked.”
As I was entering the hotel, the young mad girl began approaching me. At first, I wanted to run, but I forced myself to maintain composure. I stood my ground to hear what she wanted to say.
As she came close, I looked at her and spoke in a firm, slightly trembling tone. “Little girl, what do you want from me?”
She didn’t beg for money. She didn’t ask for food. She just stretched forth her hand. There was a rusted, heavy-looking key sitting in her palm.
“Take this key,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly clear and piercing. “It’s the key your husband used to lock all your unborn children. That’s why you can’t give birth! Go and unlock it.”
I froze. Shock and disgust washed over me at the same time. Goosebumps were scaling out on my body like I had been dipped in ice water.
“Come here, girl!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Who are you? How did you know I’m married? How did you know I don’t have children?”
She didn’t flinch. She just smiled a creepy, knowing smile. “The key was meant for you, Gracie. I’ve been waiting for you all this while.”
“God forbid!” I screamed, stepping back.
“Please, I don’t know you. My husband is not a ritualist! He is a good man! I was even pitying you before, not knowing you’re just a stubborn mad girl!”
“You better collect the key and let me tell you what to do!” the girl barked, her voice sounding much older than her body.
“I’m not collecting your key!” I snapped. “Wherever you picked that dirty thing up, go and return it. Stop harassing people. I’m sure this is what you do to everyone who passes by!”
I turned my back on her and rushed into the hotel; I didn’t look back. I quickly booked a room, took the elevator up, and locked myself inside.
But that night, sleep was a stranger. I lay on the large hotel bed, crying and thinking….
“Who’s this strange young mad girl, and where did she get that key from?” I said to myself.
I was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, my hands shaking. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her dirty face, and that heavy, rusted key. Her voice kept ringing in my head: “It’s the key your husband used to lock all your unborn children.”
The next morning, I drove back home in silence. The sun was bright.
As I pulled into the driveway of our massive home, Christopher ran out to meet me. He looked so handsome in his white linen shirt, his face glowing with a smile.
“Welcome home, my queen!” he said, pulling me into a warm hug. “How was the seminar? Did you impress the international partners?”
“It was fine, Chris,” I managed to say, forcing a smile. “Just a bit exhausting.”
“You look pale, Gracie. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his eyes filled with worry. He touched my cheek gently. “Maybe we should see the doctor again? Just for a check-up?”
I pulled away slightly. “No! No more doctors, Chris. I just need to rest.”
I didn’t tell him about the girl. How could I? How could I tell my husband that a stranger on the street called him a rituaIist who locked my womb? It sounded like a crazy story from a movie.
For the next two weeks, I tried to be a good wife, but the seed of doubt had been planted. I started having flashbacks of our early years. I remembered the night after our wedding, six years ago. We were so happy.
“Gracie,” Christopher had whispered that night, “I will give you everything. I will protect you from the world. You don’t need anyone else but me.”
At that time, I thought it was romantic. Now, I wondered… did “protecting me” mean keeping me all to himself?
