The day I told my father I was pregnant, he gave me twenty minutes to pack my things. No yelling, no tears – just a quiet “Get out” that echoed in my ears for years. I spent my first night as a homeless teenager on a park bench, protecting my stomach with my arms.
Liam and I struggled through years of secondhand clothes and meals stretched too thin. But my son had a fire in him – by high school, he could diagnose car problems just by listening to the engine. On his eighteenth birthday, he asked for one thing: to meet his grandfather.
I held my breath as we stood on that familiar porch. When my father opened the door, Liam handed him a bakery box. “This is what you missed,” my son said, revealing a perfect slice of birthday cake inside. “I forgive you for turning us away. But I want you to know – I’m opening my own garage. Not to hurt you, but because Mom taught me how to build something from nothing.”
The car ride home was silent until Liam squeezed my shoulder. “He lost more than we did, Mom. He lost all these years with you.” That’s when the tears finally came – not from pain, but from realizing how far we’d come.
