My father, a mechanic by trade, ran both his shop and his family with the same strict precision — everything in order, everything spotless, everything earned. Mistakes, in his world, were like oil stains: unforgivable. So when I stood in our kitchen and whispered, “Dad, I’m pregnant,” I already knew what was coming.
At seventeen, I packed a few clothes and walked into the night. The baby’s father lasted two weeks before disappearing. I learned then that some people love you only until you need them most.
