In May 2011, she was 17 and just one month away from graduating from high school. One night, she was with a “friend.” who wanted to have sex, but she did not. He chose to r*** her, and the condom broke. Her stomach turned as her hands trembled. She felt dirty, humiliated, and used. The room was filled with the faint smell of smoke and perfume. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to stabilize herself. Although birth control eased her worry about pregnancy, but nothing eased the guilt and shame she felt.
July 14, 2011. She became the temporary guardian of her 11-year-old cousin, Dae. That same day, she got the news of her pregnancy. Her world was collapsing in front of her, the shock hit her chest like a weight, and she was full of fear. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. Her disoriented thoughts took over her, making her feel numb.
On July 16, she turned 18. Ten days later, she miscarried, and a wave of sadness hit her as guilt lingered; it was quiet but sharp. There was Relief hidden underneath, as no one was gonna know about the r*** or see her carry his child. Dae moved in for six months. The house was loud, messy, and resistant to change. Dae opposed every rule, every boundary. Each small routine became a battle. Yet, each day left a mark she was not able to fully understand for years. Over the next three years, Dae stayed with her off and on. Weeks. Months. Each time, she became a mother again. Feeding her, guiding her, and soothing her. Even temporarily, the role shaped them both.
In October 2013, she was with her best friend. They became pregnant but one week later, miscarried again. Grief struck sharp and heavy. Doctors ran tests, and she found out she was Rh-negative and her body attacked Rh-positive babies. Another loss. Her relationship crumbled. Neither knew how to grieve. They drifted apart. Dae stayed. Steady and Supportive. A hand on her back, a silent presence.
In January 2014, she met someone new. February, another pregnancy. She was in Shock. Disbelief and Fear. She did not trust the test. The nurse retested. Positive again. A shot to help carry the baby. Slowly, fear softened. At night, she rubbed her stomach. Whispered promises. Felt the tiny flutter of life.
In April 2014, Dae called. She was just fourteen and pregnant. They were due three weeks apart. Shock. Fear. Dae was homeless, skipping school, and using drugs. In June, both girls. Excitement turned tense as they had picked the same name. Arguments followed. Eventually, new names were chosen. Dae entered a teen parenting program two hours away. She got clean. Took parenting classes. They stayed in touch, visiting whenever possible.
Both pregnancies were high-risk. Doctors worried. Families worried. Comparisons began. Contingency plans were discussed. On October 20, 2014, she was induced. No dilation. The morning of October 21, the water broke. Epidural. Rest. Phone call: Dae’s water had broken. Five centimeters. Families split. Anger fought concern in her chest. Updates flew back and forth. Their progress mirrored each other.
Complications. Emergency C-section prep. She gave birth vaginally. Her daughter cried, healthy. Relief poured through her arms. Warmth. Late that night, word came: Dae and her baby were fine. Their daughters were born five hours and five minutes apart on different birthdays. Dae stayed in her program for a year. Monthly visits. Family comparisons caused tension, but they worked through it. After a year, Dae moved back. Weekends together.
They raised their daughters together. Both were single mothers depending on each other, sharing advice, struggles, and routines. Their girls grew up like sisters—more like best friends. Years later, their daughters turned four. Thriving. Dae graduated from high school. Four years sober. She pursued her teaching certification and degree. Anger had become a blessing. She was proud of Dae. Proud of herself. Proud of the daughters they raised.
