When my daughter told me she was pregnant at seventeen, I reacted with the same fear that had ruled my own youth. Instead of seeing her vulnerability, I saw a mirror of my past — the frightened eighteen-year-old girl I once was, the girl I had never forgiven. I convinced myself that turning her away was discipline, responsibility, even love, but in truth it was fear disguised as authority. My words—sharp, defensive, trembling—cut her deeply, and she left with nothing but a backpack and silent tears. I thought she would return. She didn’t.
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