My parents sat across from me — my mother with her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line, and my father staring at me like I was a stranger who had just walked into their perfect home and ruined everything.
"I'm pregnant," I had said.
Three words.
Three bullets.
And it destroyed everything.
The silence after my confession was unbearable. My heart pounded in my ears, and even Lexi—who had come with me for support—looked like she was holding her breath. She stood near the door, eyes bouncing between my mom and dad like she was watching a live bomb tick toward zero.
"You what?" my mother whispered, her voice so soft it was terrifying.
"I'm… I'm pregnant," I repeated, quieter this time.
"Whose child is it?" my father asked.
I didn't answer. What could I say? That I didn't know his name? That it was a one-night stand in a hotel with a man whose face I barely remembered through the tears and shame?
"That's what I thought." His voice was steel.
Then came the words that shattered me—words I would never forget.
"Abort it."
I gasped. My body flinched like I'd been slapped.
"Dad…" I whispered.
"I will not sit here and let you throw away your future because of one reckless mistake," he said. "Get rid of it. That's final."
"No," I said, tears flooding my eyes. "I can't. I won't."
My mother stood. "Avery, you are nineteen. You have no job, no savings, no plan. What will you do with a baby? Let's be realistic."
"I don't care. It's my baby. I'm keeping it."
My mom's eyes flared. "And what about us? The shame? What will the neighbors say? Your father's colleagues? The church?"
I bit my lip so hard it bled. Shame. That's all it ever came back to. What people would think.
"I'm not aborting it," I said firmly, more to myself than anyone.
"Then get out," my father said coldly.
"What?"
"You heard me. You want to be a mother? Then be one. Alone. Don't come back here until you're willing to be reasonable."
Lexi finally stepped in. "Sir, please—"
"Lexi, stay out of this," my mom snapped.
"No," I whispered. "It's fine." I stood, my legs trembling beneath me. "I'll go."
I left that night with nothing but a small bag of clothes, a bottle of water, and Lexi beside me.
We stayed at her place for a few days. Her mom didn't ask questions, just offered me warm meals and the kind of silence that felt safe. But I knew I couldn't stay long. Lexi's family barely made ends meet as it was.
One night, Lexi found me sitting outside her house in the cold, clutching my stomach like it could anchor me to the earth.
"I don't know what to do," I sobbed. "I have no money, no job. And now a baby."
"We'll figure it out," Lexi said, wrapping her arms around me. "I'm not leaving you."
And she didn't.
The weeks that followed were hell.
Finding a place to stay was almost impossible. I couldn't return to campus, not with tuition unpaid and shame trailing behind me like a second skin. I ended up in a cheap shared apartment with a creaky ceiling fan and a leaky faucet, thanks to some money Lexi borrowed from her aunt.
Every night, I'd cry into a pillow, the guilt crushing me from every angle. Not just for what I'd done—but for disappointing my family, for putting Lexi in this position, for bringing a baby into a life like this.
When I hit five months, I could barely hide it anymore. My belly swelled, my back ached, and I cried all the time—sometimes for no reason at all.
Lexi held my hand through every clinic visit. She downloaded pregnancy apps, watched YouTube videos about motherhood, and made jokes to lighten my darkest days.
Once, when I was curled up on her couch, feeling like nothing but a ticking bomb of regret, she said, "You know, she might have your sass. I feel sorry for whoever tries to tell her no."
That was the first time I smiled in weeks.
Month seven was brutal.
I'd developed high blood pressure. The doctor warned me about stress. But how could I not stress? I had no stable income, and the baby kicked at night like she was trying to remind me she was coming whether I was ready or not.
Lexi started selling her clothes online to help us buy diapers and baby lotion. She walked in one day holding a secondhand crib she found at a local thrift store, beaming like it was made of gold.
"I know it's not new," she said, "but it'll hold your baby just fine."
I cried for an hour.
Month eight was lonelier.
I stopped going outside. People stared too much. Judged too loudly.
But Lexi? She stayed.
She made me oatmeal in the mornings, ran errands when my feet got too swollen, and massaged my back on the nights I couldn't sleep. She even talked to the baby through my belly, saying things like, "Your mom is stubborn, but she's the strongest woman I know."
I held on to those words like lifelines.
Then came month nine.
It was raining that night. Thunder cracked like the world was breaking open. I sat by the window in our tiny apartment, one hand on my belly, the other holding a worn-out baby blanket we got from a donation center.
Lexi walked in, drenched from the storm, carrying a small box.
"What's that?" I asked.
She grinned. "Her first onesie. It has little stars on it."
I laughed through my tears.
And then—my water broke.
I don't remember much about the ambulance ride. Just Lexi screaming at the driver to go faster and me clutching her hand like I would fall apart if I let go.
At the hospital, everything moved in blurs. The pain was unbearable. The fear? Worse.
But hours later, through sweat, screams, and sobs, I heard the one sound that made everything worth it.
A cry.
My daughter's cry.
They placed her in my arms, tiny, red-faced, and beautiful.
"She has his eyes," Lexi whispered.
I nodded, staring into a pair of brown eyes that looked nothing like mine but felt like home.
And just like that, I was a mother.
Nineteen.
Alone.
But not completely.
Because Lexi was still there.
And my baby girl?
She was everything I didn't know I needed.
Everything I thought I didn't deserve.
But she was mine.
And I was never letting her go.