I got pregnant right after finishing high school.
The moment Jack found out, he asked me to marry him. I had no parents to turn to—they had both passed away when I was younger—so by the time we married, Jack had become my entire support system.
We moved into his grandmother Rose’s house after the wedding. We didn’t have much money, and she offered to help us while we prepared for the baby. Jack always spoke about the house as if it already belonged to him. Being her only grandson, he assumed it would one day.
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At first, things felt manageable, even if Jack wasn’t exactly responsible. He’d forget to pay bills, come home late, leave messes behind—and then flash a charming smile and say, “You knew I wasn’t perfect when you married me.”
I kept telling myself that once the baby arrived, everything would change.
But the day before my due date, I came home and found a note on the kitchen counter.
No Jack. Just the note.
It said he had gone out with friends, might be gone for a few days, and needed time to clear his head. He mentioned he had asked Rose to check on me—and added a careless line telling me not to go into labor without him.
I called him immediately.
No answer.
I tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
I texted: I’m due tomorrow. Where are you?
Nothing.
I stared at the note, feeling something cold settle deep inside me. Anger mixed with disbelief.
Then, at 2:17 a.m., a contraction hit so hard I dropped the glass I was holding. It shattered on the kitchen floor.
I was alone.
