She was a seventeen-year-old with love on her mind. Her nice-looking boyfriend convinced her that he would be around forever. They would marry. They would grow old together.
It was the same song and dance you’ve heard a hundred times.
But promises changed when she developed morning sickness.
She broke the news to him on a school night. They were in the car together.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
He didn’t answer. He only stared forward and grit his teeth. He called her a bad name. He told her he didn’t want any “damn baby.”
It shattered her. It was her baby.
She jumped out of the car and walked home. They never spoke again.
That was a hard time.
And her parents only made it harder. When she told them she was planning on keeping the baby, they erupted in a mushroom cloud.
Her mother wanted her to get the pregnancy “managed.” Her father didn’t care what she did as long as she got rid of it via adoption.
They forced her. And because seventeen-year-olds are supposed to do what their
parents tell them, she agreed.
She had a girl. And for many years that was all she remembered. She never saw the hair color, eye color, or chubby fingers. She only saw a newborn from a distance. Her parents didn’t want her to see the baby.
When nurses took the infant away it wasn’t a pretty scene.
“My baby!” she yelled until her voice gave out. “My baby, my baby!”
She bawled for years. A piece of her body had been stolen. Her biggest part. She felt like her entire person had been cut into sections and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
But seventeen-year-olds eventually grow up. Even sad ones. And kids turn into adults.
She went to college. She became a woman with a good career. She found a nice life, a man who loved her, and…