Warning: this story contains themes of abandonment, death, and sexual assault. Please advise before reading.

I brought it―her―outside. To that street.

It was dark then, too early for anyone to be out yet. The only person I could see was an elderly man sweeping the roadside with a broom. He swept the crooked stone pathway, the cardboard box where the children usually sat, the place where the young mother fed her baby, the place where the young woman called to men, and the corner where the babies had been. There were no babies there now.

I crept out onto the street, stepping down with my heel first to avoid making noise. The elderly man turned the corner and out of sight. I had little time to lose. I bundled the towel around the baby tighter, hoping that she wouldn’t cry out. I checked her. She was sleeping. I would be fine.

I approached the corner, which I had never dared to do before. I set down the baby, my baby, and kissed her once on the forehead. She looked so frail, the little thing. Would she be alright on her own? Would there be someone out there who could care for her, who wouldn’t pass by her? Someone who would notice and reach out their hands to her?

My heart shattered when I let go of her. It took every ounce of restraint to not scoop her back up and run home. It wouldn’t do any good, having a life with me. This was the only thing I could do for her. I knew that, but my chest tightened, my breaths quickening until it was hard to breathe.

Was this what the young mother had felt when she had had her child? Was this why she sat on the street with her plastic cup? How could she have such courage to be out there when I was so afraid to even give the newborn a name?

I prayed that my child wouldn’t have the same fate as the three children who sat on the cardboard. I didn’t want her to grow up begging for scraps. I didn’t want her to become an outcast who went to bed hungry every night. I didn’t want her to grow up to become like the young woman who called out to men. I wanted her to grow up in a good family, go to a good school, and live a good life until the day she died.

No mother wants her child to die, but the possibility did cross my mind. I could’ve left mine at the hospital for the nurses to deal with. I could’ve had an abortion or taken her to a midwife to dunk into a bucket. Sometimes mothers know that death for their child is better than life. If you’re not a mother you wouldn’t understand. If there’s absolutely nothing you can offer your child, wouldn’t it be better to not let them suffer at all?

Did I want my child to die? Did I want her to leave me as quickly as possible? To not have to feel the pain in this world? I didn’t know the definite answer then, and I still don’t know the answer now.

But I knew one thing. I had to leave her. I had to leave and never come back. I had to find that hawker and bring him to justice. I had to walk down this street tomorrow and not look at the corner. No one could know I had any connection to her. For my safety and for hers.

Before I could lose my resolve the sound of sweeping neared the corner. I turned. This time it was an elderly woman with her broom, sweeping to a steady rhythm. I couldn’t let her see me. I glanced one last time at my girl, my child, and then I left her alone in the night.