I got pregnant at 19, and my parents told me to abort or get out. I wa:rned them that if I did, we’d all be in trouble. They laughed and kicked me out anyway — but ten years later, I came back with my son and the truth made their hands shake.

My parents led us into the house as if they were moving in a trance.
For several long minutes, they said nothing at all only stared at Leo, their faces drained of color. He sat neatly on the couch, knees together, eyes flicking between them and me with quiet uncertainty.

My father finally spoke, his voice unsteady.
“There’s something about this… it feels familiar.”

“It should,” I replied calmly. “Because you know who his father is.”

My mother frowned. “What do you mean? Who are you talking about?”