“Dad,” I whispered, trembling, “I’m pregnant.”
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.”
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.Continue reading…
