I am thirty-four years old, and for the last eighteen years, my life has been defined by a singular, overwhelming equation: it is just me and Liam.I had him when I was barely more than a child myself. The world I grew up in was not kind to teenage mothers, and my parents were no exception. They saw my pregnancy not as a new life, but as the end of my own. And Ryan, Liam’s father? He was a ghost story before the first chapter was even written. He didn’t just leave; he evaporated. There was no dramatic fight, no tearful goodbye. just a disconnected phone line and an empty apartment where his boxes used to be.
He vanished the moment he realized I was keeping the baby. No calls. No child support. No birthday cards. Nothing.
