I Raised My Twin Boys Alone. At 16, They Said They Never Wanted To See Me Again

I did not feel fear when I found out I was pregnant at 17. Not at first.

What I felt was shame.

It was not because of the babies. In some quiet corner of my heart, I loved them before I even saw their faces. The shame came from learning, very quickly, how to take up less space in a world that did not expect a pregnant teenager to hold her head high.

I learned to walk the school halls with my books held close, hiding my growing belly under oversized sweatshirts. I learned to smile when other girls compared prom dresses and shared photos of beach weekends, while I silently counted how many crackers I could keep down before third period.

While my classmates worried about college essays and dorm assignments, I was worrying about due dates of a different kind. My calendar was filled with doctor appointments, WIC forms, and ultrasound visits in dim rooms where the volume on the machine was turned down low, as if the sound of my babies’ heartbeats might offend someone.

Their father, Evan, had once told me he loved me.

He fit the role people expected him to play. Star athlete. Teachers’ favorite. Easy smile. He could be late with homework and still get a pat on the back. He used to kiss my cheek between classes and swear we were soulmates, that nothing would ever come between us.

We were parked behind the old movie theater the night I told him I was pregnant. His face went pale, then his eyes filled with tears. He pulled me into his arms like he was bracing us both against a storm.

“We will figure it out, Rachel,” he whispered into my hair. “I love you. We are a family now. I will be there every step of the way.”

By morning, he was gone.