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At just 24, Andra Summers finds herself navigating the joys and burdens of new motherhood while chasing the future she once dreamed of. With a four-year-old son, a distant father who floats between charm and absence, and no steady income, she leans heavily on the strength of her aging parents, her sisters’ sacrifices, and friends who step in where love falters.

When Kingsley's father, Parker—once a dreamer with political ambitions—proposes at their son’s six-month baby shower, Andra, overwhelmed by post-partum depression and unmet promises, rejects him publicly. What follows is a slow unraveling of illusions. Andra returns to school with Kingsley on her back and determination in her heart. But when money runs out, the pressure mounts. A missed salary payment. A broken promise. A loan her mother silently takes to protect her dignity.

As Parker's love continues to flicker in and out, Andra learns to depend on no one but herself. She hardens with grace—smiling politely at his new girlfriends while quietly chasing a better life for her son.

What She Carried is a heartfelt tale of resilience, silent sacrifices, and the quiet strength it takes to rise while the world expects you to beg. Andra doesn’t just carry a child—she carries generations of hope, pain, and the fierce will to never be a story of failure.

What She Carried

Chapter Eighteen: "Whispers and Wounds"

Settling into the small bedsitter with Happy felt like inhaling fresh air after being underwater for too long. The place was modest—two narrow beds divided by a curtain, a shared table in the center for meals and late-night reading, and a mat near the corner where Kingsley played with his few toys.

Happy turned out to be warm-hearted and surprisingly organized. She was also the kind of girl who got along with everyone, so naturally, she picked up whispers from every corner of campus.

A few days after they moved in, she broke the silence as they folded laundry together.

"Andra," she said, not looking up, "do you remember a girl named Mercy? Short, quiet, used to be in hostel block D?"

Andra stiffened. The name felt like old bruises.

"Yeah," she replied, voice low. "We were roommates first year."

Happy sighed. "Well, she's still talking. I overheard her yesterday. She told some girls you used to 'move' from one guy to another. That you always act innocent, but you're not."

Andra dropped the shirt she was folding. "Of course she did," she murmured, shaking her head. "I never thought she'd still be bitter."

Happy leaned forward. "What really happened?"

Andra sat down on the edge of her bed, staring at the cracked wall. The past was heavy, but maybe it was time to speak it.

During her first year, things had been rocky. She hadn't found her footing yet. Money was tight, the baby was still breastfeeding, and sometimes she didn't even have fare to get home.

There was a time—two weeks before exams—when she got locked out of her hostel room because she hadn't paid her balance. Mercy had just stopped talking to her after a disagreement about sharing food and space.

With nowhere to sleep, she turned to the only person who offered her kindness: a guy named Justus.

He wasn't her boyfriend. He wasn't even that close. But he'd once helped her carry Kingsley's bag across campus, and when she told him what was going on, he offered his couch for the week.

Mercy had liked Justus. Everyone in their year knew that—even though Justus never seemed interested.

But Mercy took Andra's stay as betrayal.

"She thinks I stole him," Andra said, blinking back a wave of shame she didn't deserve. "But I didn't. I was just… desperate. I needed somewhere to sleep."

Happy scoffed. "So she's been holding a grudge for two years? Over a guy who never even chose her?"

Andra gave a tired shrug. "Sometimes people don't need reasons. Just pain."

They folded the rest of the clothes in silence, the air thick with unspoken understanding.

That night, after Kingsley was asleep and the room was lit only by the soft hum of their desk lamp, Happy reached out and squeezed Andra's hand.

"Thanks for telling me," she said. "I believe you. And from now on, anyone who talks crap about you—let them face me first."

Andra smiled for the first time that evening.

In this tiny room filled with noise from the neighbors, leaking ceilings, and the occasional rat scratching at the roof, she felt a rare kind of peace.

Not because the world had changed.

But because someone chose to listen—and believe.