My name is Gracie. I’ve been married to Christopher for almost six years with no cry of a child in our home.
There’s no hospital we haven’t visited to examine ourselves. Every doctor says the same thing: “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you are both perfectly well. There is nothing medically wrong with either of you.”
I remember sitting on our expensive Italian leather sofa last Sunday, staring at a blank wall. “Christopher,” I called out, my voice breaking. “What’s the essence of marriage if I can’t give birth? Every time I see my sisters-in-law with their toddlers, my heart bleeds. Am I just a decorated piece of furniture in this house?”
Christopher walked over and knelt beside me, taking my hands in his. His eyes were full of warmth. “Gracie, look at me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a factory for babies. I married you because I love you. Whether a child comes or not, we will stay in this love forever. Please, don’t bother yourself with these thoughts anymore.”
His words were sweet, like honey to a wound, yet the ache stayed deep in my soul.
So that fateful week, I traveled to a convention very far from our mansion. Our company asked me to represent them in a seminar with international people coming. It was a very large, luxurious event held in a city hours away. I spent the day shaking hands, discussing business strategies, and smiling for the cameras, but my mind was heavy.
That evening, after the seminar ended, I looked at my watch. It was already late. “If I drive back now, I won’t reach home until the middle of the night,” I whispered to myself. I decided to sleep over in a hotel instead.
As I drove off and reached a random hotel gate, I parked my car and stepped out.
That was when I saw her—a little girl walking and smiling to herself. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her hair was matted and unkempt.
“Oh, Lord,” I sighed, watching her from a distance. “What really happened to this girl? Where are her parents? How is she a lunatic at such a young age? This world is just too wicked.”
As I was entering the hotel, the young mad girl began approaching me. At first, I wanted to run, but I forced myself to maintain composure. I stood my ground to hear what she wanted to say.
As she came close, I looked at her and spoke in a firm, slightly trembling tone. “Little girl, what do you want from me?”
She didn’t beg for money. She didn’t ask for food. She just stretched forth her hand. There was a rusted, heavy-looking key sitting in her palm.
“Take this key,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly clear and piercing. “It’s the key your husband used to lock all your unborn children. That’s why you can’t give birth! Go and unlock it.”
I froze. Shock and disgust washed over me at the same time. Goosebumps were scaling out on my body like I had been dipped in ice water.
“Come here, girl!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Who are you? How did you know I’m married? How did you know I don’t have children?”
She didn’t flinch. She just smiled a creepy, knowing smile. “The key was meant for you, Gracie. I’ve been waiting for you all this while.”
“God forbid!” I screamed, stepping back.
“Please, I don’t know you. My husband is not a ritualist! He is a good man! I was even pitying you before, not knowing you’re just a stubborn mad girl!”
“You better collect the key and let me tell you what to do!” the girl barked, her voice sounding much older than her body.
“I’m not collecting your key!” I snapped. “Wherever you picked that dirty thing up, go and return it. Stop harassing people. I’m sure this is what you do to everyone who passes by!”
I turned my back on her and rushed into the hotel; I didn’t look back. I quickly booked a room, took the elevator up, and locked myself inside.
But that night, sleep was a stranger. I lay on the large hotel bed, crying and thinking….
“Who’s this strange young mad girl, and where did she get that key from?” I said to myself.
I was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, my hands shaking. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her dirty face, and that heavy, rusted key. Her voice kept ringing in my head: “It’s the key your husband used to lock all your unborn children.”
The next morning, I drove back home in silence. The sun was bright.
As I pulled into the driveway of our massive home, Christopher ran out to meet me. He looked so handsome in his white linen shirt, his face glowing with a smile.
“Welcome home, my queen!” he said, pulling me into a warm hug. “How was the seminar? Did you impress the international partners?”
“It was fine, Chris,” I managed to say, forcing a smile. “Just a bit exhausting.”
“You look pale, Gracie. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his eyes filled with worry. He touched my cheek gently. “Maybe we should see the doctor again? Just for a check-up?”
I pulled away slightly. “No! No more doctors, Chris. I just need to rest.”
I didn’t tell him about the girl. How could I? How could I tell my husband that a stranger on the street called him a rituaIist who locked my womb? It sounded like a crazy story from a movie.
For the next two weeks, I tried to be a good wife, but the seed of doubt had been planted. I started having flashbacks of our early years. I remembered the night after our wedding, six years ago. We were so happy.
“Gracie,” Christopher had whispered that night, “I will give you everything. I will protect you from the world. You don’t need anyone else but me.”
At that time, I thought it was romantic. Now, I wondered… did “protecting me” mean keeping me all to himself?
Two weeks later, Christopher traveled out of town for a business meeting. He was going to be away for three days.
That evening, I came back from work feeling restless. To keep my mind busy, I decided to do some deep cleaning. Our house is a very big mansion with many rooms we don’t even use.
I went into the guest room on the top floor. It was a beautiful room, but it felt cold. As I was dusting, I noticed the large Wardrobe in the corner. I reached for the handle, but it wouldn’t Open.
“That’s strange,” I muttered. “Since when is this wardrobe locked?”
I went to the kitchen and grabbed the spare key bowl. I brought all the keys to the guest room. I tried the first key. It didn’t fit. I tried the second, the third, the tenth.
None of them worked. I even tried the keys to the front gate and the back door, but none could even enter the keyhole.
I sat on the floor, staring at the wardrobe. My heart began to beat fast.
There is this strange mad girl that approached me and handed over a key to me, saying that it’s the key that my husband used to lock my womb.
I didn’t collect the key at first because I thought she was just foolish. I thought she was just a poor girl who had lost her mind. But now, everything is different. I saw a strange, large wardrobe in the guest room upstairs. I tried to open it with every key in this house, and it didn’t work.
That evening, I was still standing in the guest room, staring at the dark wood of the wardrobe, when I heard the front door slam. My heart jumped. It was Christopher.
“I’m home!” he shouted from downstairs.
I ran down the stairs, my breath coming in short gasps. “Christopher? I thought you said it’s a three-day conference. Why are you back all of a sudden? It’s only been one day.”
He looked tired, his tie was loose, and he didn’t give me his usual warm hug. He just threw his briefcase on the floor. “The meeting was canceled, Gracie. Why are you looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost? Aren’t you happy I’m back?”
“I am happy,” I said quickly. “It’s just… I was cleaning the guest room upstairs. Chris, do you have the key to that large wardrobe? I wanted to clean the inside, but it’s locked.”
Christopher stopped moving. He didn’t look at me. “Why do you want to clean it?” he asked, his voice cold and flat. “That wardrobe is old. I don’t have the key.”
I stepped closer to him. “But I thought you’re the owner of this house? You’re expected to have every key here. How can a whole wardrobe be locked in our home and you don’t know where the key is?”
He turned and looked at me with eyes I didn’t recognize. There was no love in them, only a strange, sharp anger. “Gracie, stop this. I can’t be searching for a key right now. That is the least of my worries. Go and fix dinner.”
That night, Christopher slept like a baby, but I stayed awake. His refusal to help me felt like a confession. My mind went back to that hotel, back to that little girl with the tattered hair.
The next morning, as soon as Christopher left for the office, I entered my car. I didn’t go to work. I drove for hours, back to that far distance where the seminar was held.
Everything was getting clearer now. My husband was hiding something, and that mad girl held the only light to my darkness.
I reached the hotel area and started asking people on the street. “Please, have you seen a young girl? She wears rags, her hair is dirty. She stays around here.”
A man pointing toward a bushy path behind a local market said, “Oh, the lunatic girl? She stays in that uncompleted building. But be careful, madam, she talks to spirits.”
I didn’t care about spirits. I ran to the building. I saw her sitting on the dusty floor, playing with stones. She looked up and smiled, as if she knew I was coming.
I didn’t act firm this time. I didn’t shout. I fell to my knees in the dirt, the tears flowing freely down my face.
“Please,” I sobbed, reaching out my hands. “I was wrong. I was blind. Please, little girl, I need your key. Give me the key to my children!”
