Four days ago I left my little village in the mountains and took a four-hour bus ride to the nearest hospital. I was due at any moment. The following morning, I spoke to my husband to tell him that I was okay and our baby would soon be born.
I didn’t know that was the last time I would speak to him. While I gave birth to a healthy baby girl, my husband was murdered in the street near our apartment. They gave me the news when I called his phone.
I was broken hearted and alone. I felt hopeless and didn’t know how I would care for my daughter and so in desperation brought her to the orphanage.
But when they asked questions, I had no words, amidst my sobs, I was met with kindness. They gently encouraged me to name my daughter and after two days I reluctantly obliged.
The thought of raising a child in the midst of my grief overwhelmed me. The morgue threatened to dump my husband’s body in a mass grave if I didn’t come to claim him.
I didn’t have a choice. Without the support of family or friends, I had to go back to my village. I left my daughter, feeling unsure if I would return.