ᯓ★ The first thing Drew Starkey said when you told him you were pregnant was:“I’m not ready.”

Not we’re not ready. Not we’ll figure it out. Just—“I’m not ready.” And then he left.

The worst part? You spent months convincing yourself he didn’t mean it.

Because this was Drew.

The boy who used to kiss your forehead before class. The boy who swore he loved you. The boy who promised he wasn’t going anywhere.

You thought he’d come back. He didn’t.

⋆˙⟡ —

By the time school started again, everyone knew who Rafe was dating.

Madison Hart.

Head cheerleader. Beautiful and popular.

Meanwhile you were throwing up between classes and trying not to cry in school bathrooms.

Everywhere you looked—there they were.

At football games, at pep rallies, walking through hallways hand in hand, and somehow Rafe always looked happy.

That was what hurt the most. He looked happy after he did.

⋆˙⟡ —

Sometimes you’d see him across the hallway.

For a second his eyes would meet yours. Then he’d immediately look away.

Like you embarrassed him. Like you were the mistake he wanted to forget.

Eventually people stopped whispering about you. Stopped asking questions. Stopped caring.

But you still saw the looks. The pity. The judgment.

A sixteen-year-old girl carrying a baby alone wasn’t exactly invisible.

⋆˙⟡ —

Your daughter was born on a freezing night in December.

Rafe wasn’t there. You knew he wouldn’t be.

But somehow you still found yourself looking toward the hospital door anyway.

Just once, just in case. He never came. Not the next day, not the next month. Nothing.

⋆˙⟡ —

The first eight months were brutal.

You barely slept. You barely ate. You worked whenever somebody would watch the baby.

Every dollar disappeared immediately.

Diapers, formula, medicine, more diapers.

There were nights you sat at the kitchen table crying over bills because you genuinely didn’t know how you were supposed to make everything stretch another week.

Meanwhile Rafe was still playing football, still going to parties, still living the life he’d chosen over you.

And eventually—you stopped waiting for him.

You stopped checking your phone. Stopped hoping he’d suddenly show up. Because hope was exhausting.

⋆˙⟡ —

Your daughter was eight months old when someone knocked on the door.

You almost didn’t answer. Until the knocking continued.

Slow. Nervous.

Unlike whoever was standing there wasn’t sure they should be.

The second you opened it—your stomach dropped.

Drew.

For a moment neither of you spoke. Because what exactly was there to say? Hi. Sorry I abandoned you. How’s single motherhood going?

And in his hands were bags.

Formula, diapers, baby food, tiny clothes.

Enough supplies to last months.

Rafe swallowed. “I didn’t know what brand she liked.”

You stared at him. Then at the formula. Then back at him. And suddenly you were furious.

Because where was this eight months ago?

Where was this when you were awake at three in the morning with a screaming newborn and nobody to help?

Where was this when you were terrified?