My father was a man of few words. So when I told him I was pregnant at seventeen, he didn’t lecture me. He just opened the door and said, “Go.”
I spent the next eighteen years proving I didn’t need him. I raised my son, Liam, in cramped apartments, working two jobs to keep food on the table. Liam grew up watching me fight for every scrap of stability—and he learned the value of hard work early.
By eighteen, he was already a skilled mechanic with big dreams. Then, on his birthday, he asked to meet his grandfather.
I was nervous as we pulled up to the house I’d been banished from. When my father answered, his eyes widened—Liam looked just like him.
My son didn’t scream or cry. He simply handed his grandfather a slice of cake and said, “I forgive you.”
Then, with quiet determination, he added, “But I won’t forget. I’m starting my own garage. And I’ll make sure you remember my name.”
As we drove away, Liam looked at me and smiled. “We turned out okay, Mom. Better than okay.”
And for the first time, I truly believed it.
