I stared at the screen, reading the text over and over again.
My newborn daughter was asleep in my arms.
$2,600. For iPhones.
From the same mother who hadn’t called me once during my entire pregnancy. The same woman who ignored my calls when I went into labor at 3 a.m.
and had to take an Uber to the hospital because I had no one else.
And now she wanted money.
My name is Maya. I’m 20 years old, and two weeks ago I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl completely alone.
No mother holding my hand.
No father waiting nervously outside the delivery room.
Just me, a nurse named Patricia who stayed late because she felt sorry for me, and the overwhelming fear of becoming a parent when I still felt like a child myself.
Six months earlier, I told my boyfriend Derek that I was pregnant. We had been together for almost two years, and I honestly thought he would be happy.
Three days later, all of his things were gone from our apartment.
He moved to Portland with a girl he met online and blocked me everywhere.
Just like that, the father of my child disappeared.
That night I called my mother, crying so hard I could barely breathe.
You know what she said?
“Maya, I already have enough problems. Your sister Lauren just got divorced and is moving back home with her three kids. I can’t deal with your drama right now.”
Drama.
My entire life falling apart was “drama.”
My father spoke to me for about 45 seconds.
“You made your choices, Maya.
You’re an adult now. Figure it out.”
I could hear a football game playing in the background.
The only person who truly helped me was my cousin Jesse.
He checked on me. He brought groceries when I couldn’t afford them.
“You’ve got this, Maya,” he would say.
“That baby is lucky to have you.”
Sometimes I believed him.
The pregnancy was incredibly hard. I worked at a call center until I was eight months pregnant. I lived off instant noodles and free food samples from Costco.
At night I would lie awake with my hand on my stomach, thinking thoughts that frightened me.
Meanwhile, my parents helped Lauren with everything.
They co-signed her mortgage.
They babysat her kids every weekend.
They threw huge baby showers for her.
For me?
Nothing.
Not even a message asking if I was okay.
I had kept a joint bank account with my mother since I was sixteen.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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