I never imagined I’d be sitting on a curb in the pouring rain, holding my three-day-old daughter against my chest, with everything I owned in soaked garbage bags beside me. Thirty-seven cars passed before anyone stopped. Thirty-seven.
My name is Rebecca. Just three days ago, I had a life. I was married, living in a comfortable home, planning a nursery for my baby. Then my husband, Michael, threw me—and Lily—out into the storm because I refused to terminate her. Suddenly, I had nothing. Three bags of clothes. A newborn. Forty-seven dollars.
Eight months earlier, I’d discovered I was pregnant. Michael and I had discussed having kids “someday,” but he insisted we weren’t ready. When I showed him the positive test, I expected joy, maybe a little panic—but instead, his face went cold.
“Get rid of it.”
Those three words shattered everything. I told him no. This was our child. My lifelong dream of motherhood mattered more than his comfort. That’s when the abuse began—emotional, cold, and relentless. Michael moved out, refused to help, and even his family turned on me, calling me a “trap” and blaming me for “ruining his life.”
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