At seventeen, I became a mother, holding my baby, whose tiny hands and soft breath overflow my heart with love. To some, I’m a mistake, but my child is my purpose, my hope. The weight of judgment and my parents’ absence hurts more than sleepless nights. I don’t need grand gestures—just their blessing, a sign I’m still their daughter.
Young motherhood means sacrifices and silent battles, but my son’s trusting eyes make it worthwhile. He sees me as home, not my age or others’ disapproval. I dream of my parents recognizing my courage, saying, “We’re proud of you.” Until then, I’ll give my child the love and stability I miss, forging a future worth every hardship.
Motherhood isn’t about being perfect or the “right” age—it’s about brave, unconditional love. My story, with its joy and pain, is mine, and my son is my reason to keep going.
