I was sixteen, homeless, and living under a bridge with my newborn daughter. Her name was Hope. I had seventeen dollars to my name and no one to turn to. I’d run away from my foster home after refusing an abortion — my foster father had been abusing me since I was fourteen. No one believed me. No one helped.
I gave birth alone in a gas station bathroom at 3 AM, cut the cord with a stolen knife, and wrapped my baby in my jacket to keep her warm. For two months, I kept her alive while I was starving, freezing, and bleeding nonstop. I knew I was dying. And if I died, Hope would die too.
Then, one morning, motorcycles rumbled beneath the bridge. I hid, terrified. But five massive men in leather vests didn’t leave. They surrounded me and my baby. One of them, Ray, knelt down and spoke gently.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” he said. “We do outreach for kids like you. Let us help.”
I broke down and told them everything — the abuse, the foster system, my plan to surrender Hope because I couldn’t survive any longer. And for the first time in months, someone believed me.
Within thirty minutes, they had called a safe house operator, a doctor, and a lawyer. Rita, the safe house director, arrived and promised me Hope wouldn’t go into foster care. They got me to a hospital where doctors saved my life. I learned I was in septic shock and had severe complications from birth. Without them, I would have died within twenty-four hours.
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