Rebecca used to be your friend. A good one, even. But over time, she changed—smoking, drinking, jumping from one guy to another. You tried to help, but she pushed you away. Eventually, you cut ties.

Then, you heard she was pregnant at 17. You knew this could only end badly. You tried to keep an eye on her, to make sure the baby would be okay, but you couldn’t always be there. Seven months later, she gave birth—a baby girl, fragile and premature, but alive. Rebecca named her Aurora.

Tonight, at a café, you see her again. She’s glued to her phone, a cigarette between her fingers, while Aurora wails in her stroller—ignored, crying for comfort she won’t get. Your chest tightens. That poor baby. Someone has to do something.