The Altruistic Caregiver
PROLOGUE
A young girl sat in a pale white waiting room, her round-up-turned nose scrunching up at the overwhelming smell of antiseptic and other cleaning chemicals hospitals always seemed to use. Her honey-dew colored eyes darted around the room— her mind desperately looking for any kind of distraction she could use to ease her ever-growing anxiety. Her eyes settled on random 'inspirational' posters that were placed throughout the small, bleak room. Her eyes pause on one of them, bold letters on a picture of kittens.
"You can do it! All you have to do is try!" The poster had written on it. The girl couldn't help but snort at the irony of such a message in a hospital waiting room. She couldn't imagine being in critical pain and seeing that. Who would put this up here?
"Tachibana, Emiko?"
The young girl stands up as her name is called, wiping her clammy hands off on the loose black joggers she was wearing. Her stomach churned and twisted like tangled barbwire as she gave the receptionist an apprehensive smile— She felt sick.
The receptionist is in her mid-forties, brown hair with stray grays and a pair of crow's feet by her droopy eyes. Tired eyes behind a pair of crooked glasses. The older woman raised a brow at the young girl with doubt, her lip upturned.
"You?"
The receptionist scrutinized the girl from head to toe, a doubtful expression still there as the girl gave a nod of affirmation. The girl, Tachibana Emiko, looked twelve. A small little thing. She was under five feet wearing an old blue hoodie with a big sunflower on the front. It was much too large for her, hiding her frame. The sunflower was faded slightly and decayed slowly as the hoodie aged and her black joggers had gotten a grey tint from overuse. Emiko had a round face, chubby with baby fat due to her age, and round honey-dew colored eyes accompanied by a pair of thick lashes with unruly thick hair the color of butterscotch that went past her shoulders.
"You sure you filled out the right paperwork, kid?" The receptionist glances at her paperwork with a displeased hum, "You look too young to be a wet nurse."
"I'm almost fifteen," Emiko stated with a frown. "We send six-year-olds to war— is it really that surprising for a teenager to become a wet nurse?"
The receptionist gave another hum in response, eyeballing the girl. "And you are currently producing milk?"
Emiko nods as she shifts her feet with uneasiness– she knows what kind of questions are coming next. She felt sick again.
"Are you currently pregnant or just recently pregnant?"
She flinches at the word, "Y-Yes. Was."
"Do you still have the baby, if not where is it? We can't let you wet nurse if you are… a threat to children." The older woman draws, noticing the girl's discomfort.
"Mis-" She pauses, her chest tightening. It felt like a rope was around her heart, tightening. "Lost it."
"…I see." The receptionist frowns with an apologetic, pitying glint behind her eyes. Emiko hated it.
"You were approved, this was all just part of the formality." The woman hands Emiko some paperwork before bending over and pulling out a box from underneath the reception desk. Inside was a folded-up stroller, bassinet, baby clothes, pacifier… basically everything that she would need.
As Emiko goes to grab the box, the woman puts her hand on top of hers. She gives Emiko a soft smile, that same sad look in her eyes. Emiko wanted nothing more than to pull her hand away as if she had been burned. Instead, she entertained the older woman and gave her an appreciative smile before pulling the box away. She couldn't stand being rude– her anxiety making her hyper-aware of every one of her movements. She really hoped she didn't appear so.
"Someone should be at your home within a few days with your dependent. Call if you have any questions or problems." The woman called out as Emiko started heading out, and Emiko gives her a nod to show that she heard before making her way home.
Emiko enters her one-bedroom apartment. The walls were pale blue, lacking décor and furniture. She didn't have a table, just a couch, and a coffee table. The kitchen was small, barely being able to fit more than one person at a time. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She never knew her parents. They died shortly after her birth, during war times. They were low-level Chunin, not from any clans or remarkable families. Emiko decided young that Shinobi life wasn't meant for her. She had no interest in fighting, or dying in a gruesome battlefield like her parents.
She didn't know what she wanted to be, not that she really had the option of being picky. She picked up random jobs where she could. Restaurants, house cleaning, delivering letters— you name it and she's probably done it at least once for a paycheck. Anything just to scrape by, until she got pregnant. It wasn't her choice, not even in the slightest.
She was bartending in the red light district when a drunkard forced himself upon her. She hated every moment of it. She wanted nothing more than to crumble away like dust until she found out she was pregnant. A small part of the happy her came back, excited with possibility. She had reached five months before she miscarried. No doctors could give her a real explanation as to why it happened.
"It just wasn't meant to be." They told her, "You don't want to be a mother this young, anyways."
Emiko blinks as she hears the words repeat, trying to shake it off. She opens the bedroom door, carrying the box in one hand as she enters. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the bedroom was decorated with love and care. There was a queen bed in the middle of the room with a clean, unused blue crib next to it. The walls had childish stickers of random animals and letters, children's posters scattered around.
She takes a long breath as she places the box in the crib. The crib had a single gold, stuffed teddy bear in it. Emiko can't help the small whimper that passes through her lips as she picks up the toy, honey-dew eyes swelling with tears.
"I'm sorry- I'm so sorry…" Emiko chokes, her throat tight as she hugs the small bear to her chest. "I'm sorry."
Emiko cries for the child that could never be.