They say no relationship is perfect, and for a while, I believed that about Travis and me. He could be selfish and distant, but he also brought me coffee just how I liked it and left sweet notes that made me feel loved. I thought we were building a real future.
My mom, Linda, visited often—always helping, always involved. I used to appreciate it.
Then one day, I came home early and found them kissing in the living room—my boyfriend and my mother. Shocked, I demanded answers. Neither looked sorry. Travis claimed he didn’t want me to find out that way, and Linda coldly blamed me, saying he deserved someone who understood him.
I kicked them out. Days later, I found out I was pregnant—with Travis’s baby. I told him, and he showed up trying to play the role of a supportive partner, as if nothing had happened.
Then Linda called me. She was pregnant too—with his child. She admitted she planned it, just to keep him from coming back to me.
Travis didn’t want to deal with either situation. He suggested I “had options,” trying to convince me to make things easier for him. I threw him out again.
But it didn’t end there. I caught him packing to run away, with two plane tickets. He said Linda was overwhelming him. I realized he was abandoning both of us.
I called Linda and told her the truth. Then I tore up the letter I’d written in hopes of closure. He’d lost that chance. I told him he’d be paying for both kids, and I walked out.
Outside, the air felt different—like freedom. I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew one thing: I’d raise this baby on my own, and I’d never let anyone make me feel small again. In losing them, I found myself.
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