At seventeen, one truth shattered my world: I was pregnant. That single sentence cost me my home, my father’s love, and everything familiar. Eighteen years later, my son stood on that same doorstep—and said something neither of us expected.
My dad wasn’t cruel, just cold. Controlled. Distant. His love came with silent terms and invisible fine print.
I told him anyway. “Dad… I’m pregnant.”
He didn’t yell. Didn’t plead. He just stared, then walked to the door and said quietly:
“Then go. Do it on your own.”
At seventeen, I became homeless, armed only with a duffel bag and a promise to a child I hadn’t met yet.
The father lasted two more weeks before vanishing completely. I raised my son alone.
We lived in a tiny, run-down studio with cockroaches that felt like uninvited roommates. I stocked shelves by day, cleaned offices at night, and whispered prayers into the dark. I delivered my son, Liam, alone—no waiting room, no baby shower, just the two of us against the world.
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