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.
At the hospital, the lights were harsh and the room felt colder than it should have. No one held my hand. No one whispered reassurance. I lost the baby quietly, painfully, and alone. When they discharged me, they handed me papers and directions like I was just another file being closed. I didn’t have the strength to leave.
I sat in the hallway and cried until my chest hurt and my head felt empty. I cried until nothing came out.
