Prophet Briggs stood up slowly and walked around Nyla like she was a problem to be diagnosed in public.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “I see heaviness. I see blockage. I see spiritual chains.”
Nyla’s eyes filled.
Because none of this was private. None of this was love.
Prophet Briggs raised his voice. “This womb needs deliverance. This woman must fast. This woman must confess.”
Ivonne clapped. Kesha nodded dramatically like she was watching a show.
Nyla looked at Terrence again, begging again.
Terrence’s face stayed blank.
Then two nights later, the cramps returned.
Nyla woke up gasping, one hand on her belly, whispering, “No… please… not this.”
She ran to the bathroom, and when she looked down, she knew.
Blood again.
She cried so quietly her sobs sounded like choking.
Terrence banged on the door.
“Hurry up,” he yelled. “You always doing too much.”
When he finally drove her to the hospital, Nyla felt numb.
Not scared this time. Just numb.
The doctor didn’t take long.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve miscarried again.”
That was the third.
The third time her body lost something her heart already loved.
Nyla didn’t scream. She just stared.
Stared like her soul had left first and her body was still sitting there waiting to catch up.
At home, Ivonne didn’t bring soup. She didn’t bring comfort.
She brought blame.
