A night of celebration, a lifetime consequence

SHA'

, 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 come