A Valentine’s Day I’ll Never Forget In February 2003, my grandma married her third husband, Jim. At first, I didn’t like him. It felt like he was trying to replace my real grandpa. Over time, I started to see him differently and gained a deep respect for him.
He even taught me how to drive when we lived in Alaska. Still, back then, I had only just started to accept him. That month, my mom, sister, and I rented a car and took a road trip to the river to attend the wedding.
We blasted music the whole way, especially the Sweet Home Alabama soundtrack — my favorite movie back then. But just two weeks later, everything changed. I was sitting in my parents’ room when I finally shared a secret I’d kept for months: I was pregnant. They were shocked, angry, disappointed. My dad made the decision that I was going to end the pregnancy.
The next day, my mom took me to Planned Parenthood. But at the appointment, they told me I was too far along. I would be having the baby, due in early May, right around my mom’s birthday. Even more frustrated, my dad then insisted that I give the baby up for adoption.
When I tried to speak up, he yelled, “You’d really put this family through a crying baby? You’re so selfish.” My mom started calling adoption agencies from the phone book, but they weren’t much help. Then I remembered a teacher who once said she might be open to adopting. My dad left her a message. When she called back, he told her the situation and asked if she and her husband were interested. In just a few days, they said yes. They called a lawyer, and I began prenatal care.
I celebrated my 16th birthday pregnant. I stayed home from school and kept it all a secret. My mom was embarrassed but still helped me with appointments and clothes, and made sure I ate enough. My baby was born by C-section, healthy and strong.
Leaving the hospital, I chose to carry her out myself — I didn’t want to leave empty-handed. I handed her to her new parents, hugged them, and watched them drive away. My heart broke. That summer, I tried to go back to being a teenager. I smiled on the outside, but inside I missed her every day. Over the years, though, things changed. We stayed in touch. Slowly, we grew close. Now, she’s 16. We talk, spend time together, and she helps with my younger kids. Her adoptive mother has become one of my dearest friends.
Together, we raise a girl we both love more than anything. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
