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.
— Mateo…
— Don’t talk to me like that, he said, pretending disgust. We’re barely classmates.
My dad stood up.
— Look my daughter in the eyes and say that again.
Mateo did.
— It’s not mine.
Something inside me broke. Not my heart. Not even my pride. The last part of me that believed in limits, in decency, shattered.
Then the principal lowered her gaze to a red folder. My pulse jumped.
Mrs. Rebeca stiffened. Mateo swallowed. My parents and I exchanged confused looks.
The principal opened it. Printed sheets. Screenshots. Dates. Messages. Photos. My heart pounded.
— Valeria, she said softly, someone left this under my door last night.
— Who?
She didn’t answer. She pulled out a USB drive and a folded piece of paper.
— Before deciding whether you can continue studying here, everyone needs to hear something.
She plugged in the drive. A video began to play on the projector. My own voice, recorded, laughing in the hallway, whispering to Mateo about the baby, the WhatsApp screenshots I had hidden, proof of every conversation. Mateo’s own words popped up on the screen: “my love, I’ll take care of you.”
Mrs. Rebeca’s face went pale. She had no words. Mateo’s calm, cold mask cracked for the first time. He looked like he had swallowed ice.
