I was sixteen when I gave birth.
Sixteen — terrified, ashamed, and convinced that my life was already over before it had truly begun. My parents handled everything quietly. Papers were signed. Decisions were made. I told myself it was the only way. I told myself she would have a better life without a frightened teenage mother who had nothing to give.
The day I left the hospital without her, I felt something tear inside me — but I buried it. I had to. I was
