My father kicked me out when I was 18 for getting pregnant

“I was angry,” he begins. “When your mother died, I broke. You were all I had left, and I thought…I thought if I could control everything, I could keep you safe. But then you told me about the baby and I…I saw your future vanishing.”

“My future was the baby,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

He nods slowly. “I see that now.”

We stand there in silence. My son leans against the doorway, arms crossed. He’s watching us like a detective trying to solve a case with no good outcome. I hate that he has to carry all this weight.

“Do you want coffee?” my father asks, suddenly.

I blink. “What?”

“Coffee. I make it stronger now. You always liked it that way.”

He disappears into the kitchen before I can answer, like he needs to do something with his hands. My son and I follow, unsure what this is becoming.

The kitchen hasn’t changed either. There’s a new coffee maker, but the chipped mug with the mountain logo still sits on the drying rack. The one he used every morning when I was a kid.

He pours three cups. Places one in front of me. One in front of my son. Then sits down across from us.

“I’ve missed a lot,” he says. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I’d like a chance. Just one.”

My son takes a sip. Doesn’t speak.

I wrap my hands around the mug. It’s warm. Comforting. But the walls inside me are thick.

“I used to dream about you showing up,” I say quietly. “Just once. On Christmas. Or my birthday. Even just a letter. But you never did.”

He looks ashamed. “I kept tabs on you. Asked around. I even drove past your apartment once. Saw you taking out the trash with a toddler on your hip.”

I choke a little on my coffee. “You saw us?”

He nods, eyes full of regret. “You looked…tired. And strong. I didn’t know how to come back after what I did.”

I look at my son. His jaw is tight. But his eyes…they’ve softened. Just a little.

“So why now?” I ask. “Why open the door today, of all days?”

He sighs. “Because I saw him. He looked just like you did at eighteen. And I realized… if I didn’t open that door, I’d lose both of you forever.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s not cold. It’s waiting.

My son clears his throat. “We’re not here for guilt or second chances. We’re here because I needed to know where I came from.”

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