The day my daughter told me she was pregnant at seventeen is frozen in my memory. She stood in the kitchen, terrified, while my own unresolved past rushed forward. Instead of seeing her fear, I saw my own history of becoming a young mother and panicked.
I reacted with cruelty disguised as “tough love.” I told her she had ruined her future and asked her to leave, convincing myself I was protecting both of us. When she walked out with a backpack and tears, I believed she would return. She didn’t.
The years that followed were filled with a heavy, relentless silence. Holidays and birthdays passed with an empty chair as constant reminder. I told myself stories to survive the guilt, but at night I whispered her name and wondered how she was surviving without me.
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