My name is Morgan, and twenty years ago my father looked me in the eye and said, \u201cYou made your bed. Now lie in it.\u201d The words were flung like a verdict and then the door slammed so hard the porch shook. November air bit through my coat and climbed straight into my ribs. I was nineteen, terrified, pregnant, and officially\u2014according to the man who called himself a pillar of the community\u2014no longer a daughter but a disgrace.<\/p>\n
The porch light burned down on me like a spotlight, too bright, too public, the color of someone else\u2019s judgment. Behind my father\u2019s shoulder, my older brother Mark stood with his arms folded, smirk set like he\u2019d won a mean little game. \u201cDon\u2019t come back begging,\u201d he said, and the smirk twitched into something uglier. Through the kitchen window I could hear my mother crying, but she didn\u2019t come out. Maybe she couldn\u2019t. Maybe fear was the loudest thing in that house.<\/p>\n
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