One thought occurs to me in the bathroom, while waiting for my chance to find out if there will ever be any hope of achieving success or happiness again: how can this be happening? Even now I’m in disbelief; regardless of what these negative emotions are saying, they’re wrong!

I stand in front of the foggy mirror in my bathroom, dreading what is going to happen when those two pink lines appear. My mind races with what ifs and fears about telling my parents—mostly that they’ll be disappointed in me for getting pregnant so young or angry at me for not knowing who impregnated me while they were out of town. All I can do is try to focus on staying calm- remember what Dad taught me right before important games: breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. Is there any way I can be a successful mom? Of course not, I’m only 17!

Two lines.

No, this can’t be happening! Is this really what reality has become? When I opened my eyes two pink lines were telling me that I was carrying a baby inside of me and it had all just become too much to take in at once. Impossible, right? As if worrying about the life you’re living wasn’t enough, now worry about what will happen to this life growing inside of you! But I can’t deny it either- all those mornings spent throwing up when I had no idea why would make sense now because one look in the mirror tells me otherwise. It was hard to take this new information in without completely shutting down; my mind jumps from wondering if I’m pregnant to what my mother would say- whether she’ll blame me or try to use it as some sort of punishment for all that has happened before today.

My mother was too ambitious to give up her dream of being a writer when she gave birth to Max. Despite everything else, she still wrote short stories and always had someone there to read them. Seven years after arriving, I was the polar opposite of Max. My arrival caused further stress in my mother’s life, and as a result, she stopped writing completely, blaming me for losing her talent. The rebellion took over at a young age until the present moment, except this time when my decision to become a mother at seventeen caused even greater guilt than before- a decision I deeply regret now.

My family didn’t understand me. Initially, they assumed it was a phase, but my mother’s mean and cruel nature caused my rebellious schemes to worsen; I inherited her bad nature as an innocent child, who deserved better. My brother Max, however - knows what kind of ‘problems’ I’ve been having since we were kids, so this whole ‘disappointment’ nonsense with all the relatives just doesn’t sit well with him either. Yet my brother seemed so obedient to be able to achieve our mom’s approval; that he failed at being his own person. For example, unlike Max - who would obediently do anything you say when we were younger- if someone told him to do something wrong today - no matter how much punishment or consequence there was- he would do it blindly without hesitation or complaint. He valued pleasure over everything else while I wanted nothing but the best in life. It made me feel sad seeing this... maybe even felt jealous? It was like watching a perfectly well-behaved dog get praised for obeying orders without question- fulfilling every desire of its master until they become completely dependent on them (though dogs.. have.. some freedom). Knowing this disgusted me inside and because of it made Max feel kind of miserable... so pitiful really.

Compared to both him and our sister Emily- I’m nothing but an ill-mannered girl. This isn’t new news to anyone else in the family though; they’re already aware that I refuse to behave according to norms and abide by rules- which is another reason why people believe teenage girls who refuses instruction is nothing short of spoil or unfit for society; parents and siblings alike included.

My mom never cared about me and didn’t even bother hiding how much she hated the daughter she raised. In my case, there was no way to escape the unhappiness. You might be wondering where is my dad during all this. He was always at work - you could say he was addicted to working! He would come home only when there were times when we both felt comfortable talking about everything under the sun, but those days were becoming rarer and rarer because with his job came great responsibility. It seemed like there were rare moments; however, whenever mom saw us together- even if it had been hours earlier before coming home- she would act as though she never gave up hope for me or lost faith in me, which always made me question whether or not she really loved me at all. She might come into my room (it was all fake smiles and gentle embraces), but deep down she still glared daggers at me for daring to be ambitious enough to think about something other than pleasing her.

Dad and I used to be really close when we were younger because he loved me the most. Those days when work wasn’t a problem, they belonged only to us two. But somehow mom heard our conversation and when she found out she slapped me hard in the face or she’ll hit me with one of her pans - some nights would leave marks or bruises, others just left my cheeks red - but either way, it was never good enough for her; so if Dad couldn’t spend time with me then I had to go stay at Grandma’s place who beat this love right out of me. There were nights that dragged on endlessly waiting for Dad, praying he’ll come back home soon so I could finally smile again. Even if I told Dad all that had happened, would he believe me? Mother used to say how much work meant more to him than his own family - was she right? But then again, could her words be trusted when they never brought anything but unhappiness to me?

All my thoughts led back to what this would mean for the child growing inside of me. I knew that hiding this information from my family just wasn’t going to work out, but I needed time before facing them.

Fortunately, I had two best friends -Annette and Christine- who would stand by me no matter what happened. Both girls were amazing in their way, but Annette and I shared a special bond forged through years of laughter and mutual support; the whole ordeal began when we accidentally slipped on some bananas during recess one day. We looked at each other awkwardly after all the laughter died down and from then on became really good friends.

Knock Knock.

“Could you please hurry up in there?” Max asked as he banged on the bathroom door. “I need to take a poop,” he giggled. Disgusted little creature, so candid about announcing something that was at the forefront of his mind, boys.

I hid the pregnancy test and all evidence of my pregnancy under neath a spot that I knew that nobody would search for in the bathroom, the closet, underneath the towel on the bottom shelf, where all the spider webs were. I washed my hands and face before exiting the bathroom with a straight face remaining not making it obvious that I found out I’m pregnant.

“Finally, you were in there for hours,” Max stated. Running his way towards the bathroom hearing his stomach argue with relief of seeing the toilet that he will be sitting in for God knows how long.

Emily ran up to me from down below stairs with an impish grin on her face - clearly having done something she knows is wrong - such as playing with markers or scribbling on walls again. “Emily,” I started playfully, wanting to avoid scaring her away but still maintain dominance over her. “What did you do this time?”

She replied by whispering: “I hid mommy’s shoes.” Then she giggled after telling me what had happened before skipping back downstairs while singing ‘this little piggy’.

Ugh! Each time she does something wrong, I get into trouble.

Emily noticed the different treatment that I received from mom, but there’s not much she can do about it without telling dad- and we both know how often he works! So Emily didn’t have any luck with him either. So really, after thinking about it for a bit -what else could an innocent 4-year-old child do?

Sometimes she catches sight of me in the privacy of my bedroom, her sight turns to dismay, she sees all my tears and occasionally the violence. All she could do was cry with me, she felt my pain but didn’t understand the nature of my feelings. And yet these moments of pure pain give birth to some form of solace- as relaxing as an afternoon nap while resting against fluffy pillows on your bedroom floor surrounded by sunlight shining through the window slats despite everything being dark inside you now.

And somehow I thought back on my unborn baby and what it would look like when it was born, how this stomach would grow even larger over time.

I’m not ready at all.