As the last page was clipped back into the file, Tula looked at the doctor and said, dryly, “So I’m not giving birth at seventy-two after all?” Her voice was calm, but the weight of the last week sat heavily behind it. The doctor offered a thin, embarrassed smile. “No,” he said. “You were never pregnant. Your pain was due to Gastroenteritis actually. I warned the staff not to rely on system shortcuts. But… we failed you.”
They left her with silence and a half-hearted apology. Tula didn’t need either. She finally had her name, her file, her truth—and that was enough. She lay back, closed her eyes, and let the weight lift, not with relief, but with something steadier. The calm reassurance of a woman who had believed in herself.