The obstetrician said nothing. He moved his sensor this way and that, freezing the image occasionally to take measurements. I wondered how bad the abnormality was. Was he steeling himself to tell me the truth, or had the delivery of bad news become routine to him?

“Everything looks fine. The four chambers of the heart are present and correct. The nuchal layer is within normal limits. The spine is well developed, with no signs of spina bifida.”

“But the head. Is there anything that can be done?”

“The head is normal. What is troubling you about it?”

“It’s so big.”

“That’s normal for Baby at this age. Their heads are quite large in relation to their bodies.”

“Can you tell the sex?”

“Yes. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s a boy.”

At the next scan, I was told that the bloodwork was normal. At the next, he was lying with his head up, but that could still change, right up until the last minute. At the seven-month scan, his head was down, and his buttocks were tucked under my diaphragm. At the eight-month scan, my placenta was looking good.

I was well throughout the pregnancy. Better than well. Everyone said I was glowing. I was the picture of health. My father said I had a self-absorbed, placid look. One day when I was picking vegetables for dinner at the farm, he said I looked like a peasant. He thought I belonged to the soil, and that my child would belong to the soil too. That made me feel peaceful and grounded, as though I had atoned for the sins of the white man in South Africa. I had taken the grievous act of colonialism upon my body and atoned for it with my rape. I had refused to name my attackers because I knew it was right to stay silent. The punishment was mine to endure alone, and now I was reaping the blessings that came after.

At nine months and two days, the baby was born after a tenhour labour. He was a beautiful boy with wise, brown eyes. An old soul, everyone said. Something within me healed when I held him in my arms for the first time. Mother Nature saw to that.

It’s you, I thought. Of course it is. Everything happens for a reason. Nothing is ever all bad.

He was a peaceful, joyful child. He slept well and fed well. I nourished him with my own body and he thrived. He slept in my bed, always content, never crying. Every time he smiled at me or reached up and touched my face, my wounds healed a little more.