When I was seventeen, one truth shattered my life: I was pregnant. That one sentence cost me my home, my father’s love, and everything familiar. Eighteen years later, my son stood on that same doorstep and said something neither of us saw coming.
My dad wasn’t cruel — at least not outwardly. He was cold, distant, a man who ran his life like one of his auto garages: tidy, controlled, predictable. His love always came with silent terms and fine print.
I knew confessing would break us, but I sat him down anyway.
“Dad… I’m pregnant.”
