A friend let me sleep on her couch that first night. I lay awake staring at a water-stained ceiling, one hand on my belly, counting breaths and reasons. I picked up the phone to call my mom, then set it down, picturing my father\u2019s hand seizing the receiver first. I could still hear him: Don\u2019t come crawling back. Pride and fear folded together and made a hard little pillow. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a morning that wasn\u2019t impossible.<\/p>\n
In the earliest weeks, survival became a schedule. I found day work busing tables at a diner with a sickly neon sign; at night I cleaned offices that smelled like lemon and defeat. My feet swelled; bleach cracked the skin across my knuckles; I kept showing up. I rented a studio the size of a parked car\u2014peeling paint, a leaking sink, heat that coughed once before deciding it had done enough. It was mine. Every small kick inside me said: So are we. Every flutter said: Keep going.<\/p>\n
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