My dad was never affectionate—his love was conditional, his rules absolute. When I, a 17-year-old, told him I was pregnant, he met me with contempt and cold judgment. He threw me out, no support, no second thoughts. The baby’s father vanished too, leaving me to fend for myself.
I moved into a rundown studio, juggled two jobs, and gave birth alone. But my son, Liam, thrived—working, saving, even buying a truck by seventeen. When he turned 18, he surprised me: he wanted to meet his grandfather.
He knocked on my father’s door with a birthday cake and forgave him—for me and for the past. Then he quietly warned: next time, he’d come as his rival in business. Liam had turned our abandonment into strength.
And I realized that despite everything, we had made it.