I was fifteen years old when two pink lines destroyed the only life I knew.
My hands trembled as I placed the pregnancy test on the bathroom sink. I was in my tenth year of college. I had no money, no plans, and no idea how I was going to raise a child.
But nothing terrified me more than telling my parents.
My mother stared at my belly as if I had dishonored the house . My father didn’t ask if I was alright or if the child’s father had abandoned me. He simply pointed to the front door.
“You have dishonored this family,” she said coldly. “From now on, you are no longer our daughter.”
My mother started to cry, but she didn’t stop him.
That same night, they fired me.
I left there with a small bag of clothes and less than twenty dollars. The next morning, the whole town knew. They whispered as I walked through the market. The women in front of the church lowered their voices and stared intently at my growing belly.
For several weeks, I slept wherever I could. Finally, an elderly lady named Rosa let me rent a small room in the back of her house, near Guadalajara. She hardly ever asked for anything and sometimes left food on my doorstep without saying a word.
I worked until I was exhausted.
When the work began, Rosa took me to a small private clinic. There were no family members waiting outside. No one held my hand except Rosa.
The delivery was difficult.
I remember hearing a baby crying.
Then I heard a nurse shout that there was another child.
Twins.
I didn’t know because I received almost no medical care during my pregnancy.
They placed the first baby in my arms. She had black hair and the tiniest fingers I had ever seen. I named her Valentina.
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