I don’t know why I expected anything different from them. Maybe it was the years of conditioning, the desperate hope that for once, I would matter just as much as Isabelle. That for once, they would see me not as an inconvenience, not as an obligation, but as a daughter worthy of love and support.
But that night, when I went into labor, they made it painfully clear where I stood.
I had been sitting in my childhood bedroom—the one I had moved back into out of necessity when I got pregnant. I was nine months along and had been feeling awful all day: a tightness in my lower back, a pressure that came and went, the kind of discomfort that made it impossible to focus. I had told my mother, just once in passing, that something felt off. She barely looked up from her phone when she told me I was “probably overthinking it.”
I had spent my entire life swallowing my feelings, convincing myself that I was overreacting, that I was being too sensitive. So I sat there, gripping my stomach, convincing myself that she was right, that this wasn’t real labor.
But an hour passed, then another, and the pain sharpened. It wasn’t just discomfort anymore. It was real. It was gripping, consuming. It was labor.
I stood up from my bed, shaky and breathless, and made my way downstairs. My parents were in the kitchen with Isabelle, drinking coffee, talking about wedding details. Isabelle’s wedding was all they cared about. It had been that way for months. Every conversation, every dinner, every weekend—every single thing in our household revolved around the upcoming event.
I had already been accused of trying to steal attention when I announced my pregnancy. They hadn’t said it outright, but I could see it in my mother’s expression, in my father’s sigh, in the way Isabelle had pursed her lips and said, “Well, that’s unexpected.” That was their polite way of saying unwanted. I was unwanted.
Still, I walked into the kitchen, holding on to the back of a chair to keep myself steady.
“I think I’m in labor,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
That got their attention. Isabelle’s head snapped up first, her perfectly manicured hands freezing over the wedding binder. My mother turned, frowning like I had just interrupted something very important. My father leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
My mother sighed. “Clarice, don’t be dramatic. Your due date isn’t for another week.”
I gritted my teeth through another wave of pain, gripping the chair tighter. “I know, but it’s happening now. My contractions are getting closer. I need to go to the hospital.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Isabelle scoffed, shaking her head. “Mom, we don’t have time for this right now. My dress fitting is in an hour. We’re already behind schedule.”
My mother nodded in agreement, rubbing her temples. “She’s right, Clarice. This is an important day for Isabelle. We’ve had this appointment booked for months.”
“I am literally about to give birth,” I said, my voice rising. “I need to go to the hospital!”
My father finally spoke then, his voice calm, detached. “Call a cab if you really think it’s that urgent.” Not, we’ll take you. Not, let’s go now. Just that. Call a cab. Like I was some stranger off the street.
I was shaking, and not just from the pain.
My mother sighed again, this time with irritation. “Clarice, stop making this about you. You’ll be fine. First labors take hours. You have time. We need to focus on your sister today.”
I looked at all three of them: my father, arms crossed, looking bored; my mother, shaking her head like she was disappointed in me; Isabelle, staring at me like I was ruining the most important day of her life.
I didn’t say another word. I turned, grabbed my phone, and called an Uber. I was doubled over by the time the driver arrived, barely making it down the porch steps. My parents didn’t follow me. They didn’t even say goodbye.
I climbed into the back seat, barely able to mumble “hospital” before another contraction hit. The driver, an older man with kind eyes, glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Ma’am, are you—”
Another contraction, stronger, worse. My water broke. He panicked then, reaching for his phone. “I-I can pull over and call an ambulance—”
But it was too late. The pain was relentless, unbearable. The world blurred. And then, just like that, it happened. A tiny, squirming, crying baby in the backseat of an Uber. I didn’t even have the strength to cry.
The driver rushed me to the hospital. Nurses swarmed me the moment we arrived. All I knew was that I had my baby in my arms, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t alone.
I spent two days in the hospital. My son, thankfully, was healthy, perfect. My parents didn’t call. Isabelle didn’t visit. Not a single text, not a single voicemail. Nothing.
And then, on the third day, my mother showed up. She was holding a small stuffed animal, her face carefully composed. She smiled like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t left me alone to give birth in the back of a car.
“We wanted to come sooner,” she said, “but you know how crazy things have been with Isabelle’s wedding planning.”
I stared at her, too exhausted to even feel anger. She stepped forward, reaching toward the bassinet. “Can I hold him?”
I took a slow breath, looking down at my son, the tiny, warm, perfect little person in my arms. Then I looked at her, and I said, my voice steady, “You missed that chance. Just like I missed your support.”
For the first time, I saw regret—real, genuine regret—in her eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it. I didn’t give her another chance to speak. I turned away, holding my baby closer. For the first time in my life, I knew I didn’t need them anymore. I had everything I needed right here in my arms.
My mother lingered in the doorway for a long time. I could feel her hesitation, the weight of everything left unsaid hanging between us. But I didn’t look at her. Eventually, I heard her inhale sharply, and a second later, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, and I exhaled. I should have felt broken, but instead, there was a strange, unexpected relief.
Two days later, I was discharged. The Uber driver, Walter, had insisted on picking me up. He was the only person outside of the hospital staff who had shown me real kindness.
“You sure you’ll be okay, ma’am?” he asked as he helped me carry my bag to the porch. The house in front of me wasn’t home, not anymore, but I had nowhere else to go.
“I’ll be fine,” I lied.
The house was quiet when I entered. My parents were sitting stiffly on the couch, and Isabelle was perched in the armchair, scrolling through her phone.
“You’re back,” my father said. There was no warmth in his voice.
“We were expecting you earlier,” my mother added, avoiding eye contact.
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Well, you know, recovering from childbirth tends to slow a person down.”
Isabelle let out an exaggerated sigh. “So, what’s the plan now? You’re not expecting to stay here long-term, right?”
They had tolerated me when I was pregnant because they didn’t want the shame of kicking out their unwed, expectant daughter. But now that the baby was here, their patience had run out.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “I need time to figure things out.”
Isabelle scoffed. “Clarice, you can’t just live here indefinitely. We have a lot going on. The wedding is in less than two months, and we don’t need…” She motioned vaguely toward the baby in my arms. “…this kind of distraction.”
This. She called my son this. A distraction.
“Don’t you think you should have a little more independence?” my father added. “You’re a mother now. It’s time to start acting like one.”
I let out a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “Right. Acting like a mother. You mean like how you both acted when I needed you the most?” My mother looked up sharply, but I wasn’t done. “I begged you to take me to the hospital, and you told me Isabelle’s dress fitting was more important!”
Isabelle groaned. “Oh my god, are you still on about that? It was one appointment!”
“One appointment where I gave birth in the back of a stranger’s car because my own family refused to help me!” I shot back. “You left me alone, and now you have the audacity to sit here and talk to me about responsibility?”
My mother’s face had gone pale. “Clarice, we—”
“No,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it. You made your choices. Now, I’m making mine.”
I turned on my heel and walked toward the stairs. Behind me, Isabelle let out another dramatic sigh. “She’s so overdramatic,” I heard her mutter.
I didn’t stop. I made it up to my old bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. I couldn’t stay here. They didn’t want me here, and I didn’t want to be here. But where could I go? I had no savings, no job, no plan. And yet, for the first time, I knew with absolute certainty that I would figure it out. Because I had to. I wasn’t just Clarice anymore. I was a mother, and I would never, ever let my son feel like he was an afterthought.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat in my room with my son sleeping against my chest and started searching online for help. Then I remembered Walter. I scrolled through my phone until I found the number he had given me. I hesitated for only a moment before typing out a message.
Me: Hey Walter, I don’t know if you remember me, but you drove me to the hospital when I was in labor. I don’t know if this is too much to ask, but do you know of any shelters or housing programs for single moms? I need to find a place soon.
My phone buzzed only a few minutes later.
Walter: Of course I remember you. And yeah, I actually do know a place. My niece runs a program for women in tough situations. It’s not fancy, but it’s safe, and they help with jobs and childcare. Want me to put you in touch?
I nearly started crying.
Me: Yes, please.
Walter: Consider it done. And don’t worry, kid. You’re going to be okay.
For the first time in weeks, I actually believed it.
The next morning, I called Walter’s niece, Margie. She was warm and kind and immediately made me feel at ease. “You don’t have to do this alone, sweetheart,” she told me. “We’ll help you get on your feet. When can you come in?”
I looked around my childhood bedroom. “As soon as possible,” I said.
That evening, I took a deep breath and walked downstairs with my bags packed. The second my mother saw me, she frowned. “What’s all this?”
“I’m leaving,” I said simply.
My father looked up from his newspaper. “Where are you going?”
I adjusted the straps on my shoulder. “Somewhere I’m wanted.”
My mother sighed. “Clarice, don’t be dramatic.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “That’s funny. You said the exact same thing when I told you I was in labor. I’m leaving. Don’t worry, I won’t ruin Isabelle’s perfect wedding.”
Isabelle scoffed. “Jesus, Clarice, do you have to be so bitter all the time?”
I turned to her, tilting my head. “Yeah, actually, I do.”
And before any of them could say another word, I walked out the door.
Walter was already waiting in his car by the curb. I glanced back at the house one last time, half-expecting my mother to come running out, begging me to stay. But no one came. Of course not.
The shelter wasn’t big, but it was clean and comfortable. Margie led me to a small room with a twin bed, a crib, and a dresser. It wasn’t much, but to me, it was everything. “You can stay as long as you need,” she told me. “You’re not alone, Clarice. Not anymore.”
The next few weeks were the hardest of my life. One afternoon, as I was rocking my son to sleep, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother. When are you coming back?
I didn’t reply, but more messages followed. Your father thinks you’re being childish. Isabelle says you embarrassed her by leaving like that. I ignored them all, until one day, I got a different kind of message.
Your father isn’t well. He’s asking for you.
It was the first message that wasn’t lecturing or scolding me. Against my better judgment, I texted back. I’ll come by tomorrow.
The house looked exactly the same, but it felt different. Maybe because I was different. My father was on the couch, looking thinner than I remembered.
“You look different,” he muttered.
“So do you,” I said evenly. His gaze flicked to the baby in my arms. “What’s his name?”
I hesitated, and then for the first time, I said it out loud. “Elijah.” The name had come to me a few nights ago as I watched him sleep. It meant strength, resilience—everything I wanted for him.
“Your mother tells me you’re living in some kind of shelter,” he said.
“I was,” I said. “But I just signed a lease on an apartment.” Margie had helped me secure my own place—small, modest, but mine. A job offer had come through, too. “I’m raising my son on my own,” I added, letting the words sit there, “since my family made it clear they weren’t interested in helping me.”
Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe—but it was gone in an instant. “You left in a hurry,” he muttered. “You didn’t even give us a chance to—”
“A chance?” I cut in with a sharp laugh. “I begged you to take me to the hospital, and you told me my sister’s dress fitting was more important. I went through the most terrifying moment of my life alone, and now, months later, you want to act like I should have given you a chance?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is to me.” I took a slow breath. “You made your choices, and I made mine.” I glanced back at my father. “You wanted to see me. Now you have.” Something in his expression shifted, like he wanted to say more, but whatever it was, I didn’t wait to hear it.
“Clarice…”
I paused but didn’t turn around. He hesitated. “If you ever need—”
“I don’t,” I interrupted, glancing over my shoulder. “Not anymore.”
And with that, I stepped outside and let the door close behind me. I didn’t cry on the way back. I didn’t feel sad. I felt lighter. I had spent my whole life bending and shrinking, trying to fit into a family that had never really made space for me. But I didn’t need to anymore. Because now, I had a new family, a real one. And as I walked toward my new home, my son safe in my arms, I finally felt at peace with leaving the past behind for good.