My mother became pregnant with me when she was just seventeen, a senior in high school. Back then, she was still a kid herself—the kind of girl who spent hours practicing prom poses in the mirror with her girlfriends, circling floor-length gowns in magazines and dreaming of the perfect corsage and a slow dance.
The day she shared the news with my biological father, he simply walked away. There was no screaming match, no cinematic explosion; there was only a chilling, permanent silence. No phone calls followed. There was no financial help, no birthday cards—nothing.
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