He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask who or how. He just looked at me — hard, silent — then opened the front door and said flatly, “Then you’d better handle it yourself.”
That was the end.
At seventeen, I stuffed a few clothes into a bag and walked out into the night. When the door clicked shut behind me, it sounded final — like the end of childhood. The baby’s father lasted another couple of weeks before vanishing. I learned then that some people love you only until it’s inconvenient.
I found a run-down apartment with peeling paint and the smell of mildew. I worked at a grocery store during the day and cleaned offices after dark. When my belly grew, so did the stares and whispers. I stopped expecting understanding. I stopped waiting for help.
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