My mom raised me alone, working long shifts as a nurse with no breaks, no help, and no second income. Despite exhaustion, she always made time for me—helping with homework, listening to my stories, and making me feel like her world.
I often wondered about my dad. My mom would shut down any questions with: “He left us.” No explanation. So I made up stories and wrote letters to a man I imagined might one day care. When she found the letters, she tore them up and snapped, “He doesn’t care about you.”
By 18, I had doubts about her version and decided to find him. All I had was a name: David. When I finally messaged him, he agreed to meet.
At the café, I hoped for a heartfelt reunion. Instead, he looked me in the eye and said, “I hate you. I never wanted you.” He walked away without remorse.
Heartbroken, I returned home and told my mom everything. I apologized for doubting her. She held me and explained how David had demanded she end the pregnancy—and when she refused, he left.
“I chose you,” she said through tears. She didn’t tell me earlier because she wanted me to feel wanted, not like a mistake.
Now I understand. He didn’t leave because of her—or even me. He left because he didn’t want the responsibility.
But my mom stayed. And that made all the difference.
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