When I was seventeen, telling my father I was pregnant cost me everything—my home, my family, and whatever love he had left for me. His face didn’t twist in anger; it just shut down. He stood up, opened the door, and said, “Then go do it on your own.” No argument. No goodbye. I walked out with nothing but a shaking heart and a life growing inside me.
The baby’s father disappeared within weeks. I found a tiny studio with peeling paint and roaches, worked nights cleaning offices and days stocking shelves until my body gave out. I gave birth alone, no hand to hold, no name on the birth certificate but mine. I promised my newborn son we’d survive—and somehow, we did.
