“His name is Tyler. He’s in my class. He… doesn’t come from a wealthy background. His family is struggling, but he said he’d do anything to be there.”
A moment of silence.
“Are you going to keep the baby?” he asked.
“Not”.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Think carefully about what you’re saying now.”
“Yes, I’ll keep it,” I replied. “And I won’t change my mind.”
He looked at me, jaw clenched, as if he could convince me to question anything. When that didn’t work, his expression changed, not to anger, but to something worse. Contempt.
“You’re seventeen,” he said in a low voice. “And you decide to throw your life away for a poor boy who can barely take care of himself?”
“I’m not throwing anything away,” I said calmly but firmly. “I can do it. I will do it.”
He pushed his chair back and stood up. He went to the front door. He opened it.
“You want to raise an illegitimate child with a poor boy?” he muttered, looking out at the street beyond the porch. “Then do it yourself.”
That was it. No shouting. No questions. Just one sentence that ended it all.
I was seventeen. And suddenly I found myself homeless.
My father – a well-known businessman who owned a thriving chain of car repair shops – never paid the slightest attention to me.
Not one phone call. Not one cent. I don’t think he ever looked for me.
I made his bed. And he just let me lie in it, no matter how cold or broken it was.
My child’s father didn’t last long either. Two weeks after leaving my father’s house, he stopped taking my calls. He made promises, said he’d support me, that he’d do whatever was necessary. But promises don’t pay for diapers. Or rent. Or hospital bills.
So I was left alone.
