I was seventeen when I got pregnant with twins, and the first thing I learned was how to disappear. While everyone else planned dances and college, I planned doctor visits and counted heartbeats. The day I heard both of them thumping steadily on the ultrasound, I made a promise: even if I ended up alone, I would not fail them.
Their father swore we’d face it together, then vanished overnight. My parents were shaken, but my mother stayed. When Noah and Liam were born—tiny, loud, perfect—my life became a blur of bottles, fever checks, and work shifts stitched together with exhaustion. Some nights I ate peanut butter on stale bread on the kitchen floor and cried, but every birthday cake, every lullaby, every small victory reminded me why I kept going.
