When I was seventeen, one truth shattered my world — I was pregnant. That single moment cost me my home, my father’s love, and the life I once knew. My dad wasn’t a cruel man, but he was cold, disciplined, and ruled by control. His affection always came with conditions, and I knew that telling him would change everything. When I finally confessed, he didn’t yell or cry. He just stood, opened the door, and said quietly, “Then go. Do it on your own.” And just like that, I was out — seventeen, homeless, and clinging to the promise of a child who wasn’t even born yet.
The baby’s father disappeared after two weeks, leaving me to face the world alone. I worked two jobs — stocking shelves by day and cleaning offices by night — all while trying to make a life for my son. Our apartment was small, cold, and filled with …
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