A night of celebration, a lifetime consequence

SHA'

l, he simply shook his head, that look of cold, hard judgment forever etched into my mind.They didn't give me time to explain, didn't ask who the father was. And how could I have told them? I barely remembered him. I was young, and foolish, and maybe a little reckless. They saw no excuse for it, and in their eyes, my choices had brought shame to our family. That night, they made it clear: I was no longer welcome in their home.For the first time in my life, I was truly alone. Pregnant, homeless, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a few belongings hastily stuffed into a backpack. I spent the first few nights on friends' couches, though their hospitality was strained. Eventually, I found a small studio apartment, the kind where the walls were thin, and the floor was cold no matter the season. It was cramped and barely big enough for me, let alone a baby. But it was mine, and it was a place I could call home.The months of my pregnancy were a mixture of fear and anticipation. Some nights, I would lie awake, hands on my stomach, wondering who these little souls would grow up to be. I had no idea If I was ready, or how I would provide for them, but as they grew inside me, I felt a strange sense of peace. I was going to be a mother, and I would do anything for them.When Kiara and Ciara were born, I remember holding them for the first time, tiny and perfect, their little fingers curling around mine. I felt an overwhelming surge of love and a fierce need to protect them. In that moment, it didn't matter that their father was a stranger, or that I had no family to help. I had them, and that was enough.But also the feeling of being left behind is still there, a feeling I was all too familiar with. The memories of those first years were like shadows at the edges of my mind-days spent working long hours in low-paying jobs, struggling to make ends meet, coming home exhausted to find two little girls waiting for me with open arms. Those hugs, their love-they were the only things that kept me going.I remember the sleepless nights, sitting by the girls' bedsides when they were sick, holding them close, wishing I had someone to share the burden with, someone who would take my hand and tell me it would be okay. But I was alone. I was their mother and their father, their provider and protector. And while I wore that role with pride, sometimes, like today, that familiar ache crept in, the longing for something... or someone... I had never really known.My girls were my joy, but raising them had com