I was eighteen when I got pregnant, and overnight, my life collapsed. My mother stared at me like I had ruined her future instead of my own. Her boyfriend didn’t even pretend to care. They told me I had made my choice, so I could deal with the consequences somewhere else. I packed a backpack, left my childhood room behind, and slept on a friend’s couch in a small town where no one knew my name or my shame.
I tried to act like I was fine. I took walks. I smiled too much. I told people I was “just tired.” But then the bleeding started.
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