I knew telling him would change everything, but I told him anyway. When I said, “Dad… I’m pregnant,” he didn’t yell or cry. He just stood, opened the front door, and said, “Then go. Do it on your own.” And with that, I was seventeen, homeless, and carrying a child I’d vowed to protect.
The baby’s father disappeared within weeks, leaving me to navigate a crumbling studio apartment, night shifts, and fear that pressed on my chest like weight. I delivered my son alone, with no visitors, no celebration — just me and a fragile boy I named Liam. He became my reason for every sacrifice.
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