There was this young mad girl who stopped me on the road and handed me a key, saying, “This is the key to the room where your husband locked up all your unborn children—that’s why you’re barren!”

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?”