It was hard for me to trust men. Really, it was hard for me to trust anyone. I learned at a young age that human beings—especially the ones who claim to love you—are often the least trustworthy of all.
Camden came into my life shortly after I’d clawed my way out of a hellish relationship—one that left bruises on more than just my skin. So when he walked in, all charm and patience, I hesitated. I looked for cracks, waited for the other shoe to drop. Because it always did.
At seventeen, I was a firecracker—loud, bright, full of energy, and just a bit reckless. Carefree barely covered it. I gave my mom hell that year. She tried her best, but I was determined to learn things the hard way. After a particularly chaotic summer, she finally threw up her hands in frustration and packed my bags. “You wanna do whatever you want? Go live with your father,” she’d said, arms crossed, voice weary.
That’s how I ended up living in a large city, 45 minutes away from everything I knew—my school, my friends, my old life. And that’s where Parker came in.
He had that baby-faced charm that made you forget to ask questions—big brown eyes, a playful smile, and an effortless swagger that pulled me in like a magnet. He made me laugh. He was fun, unpredictable, and completely different from the boys I’d known. He was everything you want at seventeen. Until he wasn’t.
At first, it was little things. He’d flake on plans. Disappear for a day, then return with a grin and a half-baked excuse. But when you’re young and in love—or what you think is love—you make excuses. You convince yourself that he just needs time. That he’ll grow up. That things will be different once life gets serious.
And then life got serious.
I was eighteen when I found out I was pregnant.
It was a Saturday afternoon—sticky, hot—the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel more intense than it already is. My friend Lauren and I had spent the morning lounging in her bedroom, scrolling through music on her phone, half-heartedly talking about boys and summer plans. I hadn’t yet told her what had been gnawing at me from the inside out.
But my body had been off for weeks—nauseous in the mornings, exhausted in ways I couldn’t explain, and then, of course, the missed period that had shifted from “probably stress” to something is wrong.
I finally broke the silence.
“I need to go to the store,” I said, avoiding her eyes.
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
I hesitated. “I think I might be pregnant.”
Her whole posture changed, like she’d been splashed with cold water. “Shut up,” she said, sitting upright. “Are you serious?”
I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I haven’t told Parker. Hell, I haven’t even told myself.”
Five minutes later, we were in her car, driving to the nearest Walgreens with the windows down and the radio off. The silence between us said more than any words could.
Back at her house, I took the test and sat on the edge of the bathtub, the white stick resting on the counter beside me like a grenade waiting to go off. Lauren sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, eyes wide with anticipation.
“I don’t want to look,” I whispered.
“Me either.”
We waited.
Three minutes never felt longer.
Finally, Lauren leaned over and picked up the test. She stared at it, frozen.
“Liv…”
My heart sank. “Don’t say it.”
She turned the test toward me, the second pink line glowing like a neon sign. “It’s positive.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My ears began to ring, and for a moment, the world felt far away—distant, muted.
Lauren stood and wrapped her arms around me. “It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered, rubbing my back. “We’ll figure it out.”
I clung to her like a lifeline. She had always been that—my anchor when I was spiraling, my person when I felt alone. But this? This was different. This wasn’t a bad grade or a fight with my mom. This was a whole human growing inside me.
And I had no idea what to do next.
Later that evening, I waited for Parker to come home.
He’d been out with friends all day—probably drinking, probably not thinking twice about me. I sat on the couch, the test hidden in my hoodie pocket, heart pounding like a war drum. When I left Lauren’s earlier, she hugged me tight and whispered, “You’ve got this.” I wasn’t so sure.
When Parker finally walked through the door, he looked half-buzzed, his smile lazy. “Hey,” he said, dropping his keys on the counter. “What’s up?”
I stood slowly, legs shaky. “We need to talk.”
He raised a brow and walked to the fridge, pulling out a soda. “Uh oh. That sounds serious.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even smile.
He popped the tab and took a sip, finally catching the weight in my eyes. “What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath and pulled the test from my pocket, holding it out.
He didn’t take it at first—just stared. Then slowly, he reached for it and looked down at the result.
The silence stretched between us like a crack in glass, widening with every second.
“So…” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Parker blinked. Then blinked again. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I took the test with Lauren this afternoon. It’s real.”
He exhaled sharply and set the test on the coffee table like it was dangerous.
“I mean… okay.” He scratched the back of his head. “So… what do we do?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. I was kind of hoping you had an idea.”
He sat down, soda in hand, eyes still on the test like it might change if he stared hard enough. Then he looked up and shrugged. “I guess… we have a baby.”
Just like that.
No emotion. No panic. No plans. Just a shrug.
And for a split second, part of me wanted to believe that maybe this was the start of something beautiful. That we’d figure it out. That love would carry us through.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
We quickly moved in with my mom. Living with her gave me a sense of security, like I had a helping hand if I needed one.
At first, I tried to be excited.
I played music for the baby, hoping she’d hear my favorite songs through my growing belly. I devoured parenting blogs, checked out books from the library like I was prepping for the SATs of motherhood, and spent afternoons scrolling through baby name lists, whispering each one to myself to see how it sounded out loud.
There were moments—brief, flickering ones—when I caught myself smiling. Like when I felt the first flutter that might’ve been a kick, or when I saw her profile on the ultrasound screen. I clung to those sparks of joy like lifelines.
Because behind the smiles, reality was grim.
While I was preparing to become a mom, Parker was preparing for… nothing.
He had no job. No plan. No urgency. He slept in most mornings, stayed out late with friends, and spent more time playing video games than doing anything remotely responsible. My mom tried not to say anything, but I could feel her judgment simmering beneath the surface every time he raided the fridge or ignored the overflowing trash.
One afternoon, I sat across from him at the kitchen table. In front of me: a pile of opened baby registry catalogs. Beside them: his untouched job applications.
“Can you please apply to something today?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “Even one job, Parker. Just something.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone. “Why are you always on my ass?”
My jaw clenched. “Because we’re having a baby. We need money. Diapers, a crib, formula—”
“You act like I don’t know that! Damn, Alivia. Just shut up for once.”
It hit me like a slap. Not the words themselves—but the way he said them. The tone. The venom behind them. It was sharp. Final.
It wasn’t the first time he spoke to me like that. But something about him saying it while I was carrying his child struck a nerve I couldn’t ignore.
After that, things only got worse. The longer he went without working, the more irritable he became. Moody. Defensive. He started disappearing for hours with no explanation, returning reeking of cheap beer and weed. The few times I confronted him, he gaslit me—said I was being dramatic or hormonal. That everything was fine and I was making it into a thing.
But it was real. A big deal. And everyone around us could see it.
My mom tiptoed around him, but my dad? He wasn’t having it.
We weren’t exactly close—he lived almost an hour away, and our relationship had always been more surface-level than deep—but he still cared. And one day, after I’d vented to him over the phone about how Parker hadn’t even tried to find a job, he showed up at our house unannounced.
Parker was sprawled on the couch, shirtless, controller in hand.
My dad walked in, scanned the room, and without even saying hello, dropped a piece of paper on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” Parker asked, barely looking up.
“A job application,” my dad said flatly. “You start Monday. Manager trainee position at Angelo’s Pizza off Route 6. I put in a word with the owner. Be there by ten.”
Parker scoffed. “A pizza place?”
My dad’s voice dropped low. “A paying job. You’ve got a kid on the way. It’s time to step the hell up.”
I held my breath, expecting Parker to explode. But for once, he didn’t. Maybe it was the way my dad looked at him—like a man daring him to talk back. Maybe it was embarrassment. Or maybe, deep down, even he knew he couldn’t keep coasting forever.
So, he took the job.
And for a moment, I let myself believe things might change. Maybe having structure, a paycheck—something to be proud of—would shift the tide.
But it didn’t.
He showed up late more often than not. Called out constantly. Treated the staff like trash. My dad only found out months later that the only reason Parker wasn’t fired sooner was because of the favor he’d pulled to get him hired in the first place.
Still, I held on.
To the idea of him. To the fantasy of the family we were supposed to become. To the hope that once the baby arrived, everything would fall into place.
But as my belly grew, so did the distance between us.
And I was already starting to realize—I might be bringing this baby into the world alone, even if he was technically still there.
Lila was born on a rainy Tuesday in late April. Her cry was soft at first—more like a whimper, as if she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be here. I felt that. But when they placed her in my arms, everything else faded. I was a mom. That tiny girl was mine. And in that moment, I promised I’d protect her from everything.
We lived with my mom for Lila’s first year. She was a godsend—cooking, cleaning, even taking night shifts with the baby so I could rest. Parker, meanwhile, was either out with friends or glued to the couch, video game controller in hand, acting like nothing in his life had changed.
He complained constantly—about how nobody respected him, how hard life was, how I didn’t appreciate anything he did.
“You think anyone else would deal with your attitude?” he snapped one night, slamming a cabinet door. “You’re lucky I’m still here.”
Lucky. Right.
That became his go-to line. Anytime I asked him to help more, or reminded him that diapers and formula didn’t pay for themselves, he’d twist it back on me.
“You think you’re some prize now?” he said another time, standing across the kitchen with his arms crossed, voice sharp. “You’ve got a kid. No guy’s gonna want to deal with that.”
I didn’t respond. I just stood there, holding Lila in my arms, staring at the floor, wishing it would swallow me whole. He knew how to cut deep—and exactly where to aim.
He wasn’t always cruel, but when he got that tone—when he felt challenged—he turned mean fast. His voice would rise, his words would sting, and suddenly I was the problem. The ungrateful one. The “nagging” one. The woman who was “never satisfied.”
He didn’t hit me—not then—but the way he spoke chipped away at me, piece by piece. And eventually, I stopped pushing. I stopped asking for help. I tiptoed around his moods and told myself he’d grow out of it.
But deep down, I knew better.
When we finally got a place of our own, I hoped things would improve. We’d have space. A fresh start. Our little family.
But it wasn’t a fresh start. It was a slow, steady unraveling.
One night, I came home from a long waitressing shift—my back aching, hair plastered to my neck from the heat of the kitchen, the smell of grease clinging to my clothes. I was exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that settles in your bones. All I wanted was a quick shower, a kiss goodnight to my daughter, and maybe five quiet minutes to myself.
But the moment I opened the front door, I knew something was wrong.
The apartment was dark, lit only by the flicker of the TV. Cartoons blared, echoing off the walls, but there was no laughter. No movement. No Parker greeting me. No baby crawling toward me like she usually did.
“Lila?” I called out, my voice already tight with worry.
And then I saw her.
She was in her crib, slumped awkwardly against the bars, her face red and blotchy from crying. Her onesie was soaked through. The smell of a full diaper hit me before I even reached her. A cold, half-full bottle sat on the floor, untouched. And on her cheek—faint but undeniable—was the red imprint of a hand.
I froze. My purse slipped from my shoulder and hit the ground with a heavy thud. The sound startled her, and her tiny face crumpled even more as she started to cry again—soft and hoarse, like she didn’t have much left.
“Parker!” I yelled, my panic quickly turning into rage. “What the hell happened here?”
It took a moment, but then the bedroom door creaked open. He came out—shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, eyes glassy. Not drunk, just vacant. Zoned out from hours of gaming. His headset still hung around his neck, his fingers twitching like they were still gripping a controller.
“What?” he muttered, like I was the problem.
I rushed to the crib and scooped Lila into my arms, holding her close. “She’s soaked, Parker. She hasn’t been fed. She’s crying and—” My voice broke as I saw the mark up close. “What the hell is this?”
He dragged a hand through his hair and sighed, annoyed. “She wouldn’t stop crying. I don’t know, maybe I tapped her too hard.”
My blood went cold. Rage and nausea twisted together in my chest. “You tapped her?”
“I didn’t hit her,” he snapped, stepping forward. “God, you’re so dramatic.”
“She’s a baby!” I shouted. “You were in the other room playing Call of Duty while our daughter screamed in here like this? Are you even hearing yourself?”
He rolled his eyes and took another step, his irritation morphing into something darker. “Don’t start with your bullshit.”
“You’re disgusting,” I said, clutching Lila tighter. “You don’t get to call yourself a father if this is how you treat her.”
And that was it. The switch flipped.
His face twisted with fury, and he lunged. “You don’t get to talk to me like that!”
I backed away, still holding Lila, but he was quicker. He reached for me, and instinctively, I turned my body to shield her.
“Put her down,” he barked.
“No.”
“Put her down, Alivia!”
I didn’t. I walked around him, gently placed Lila on the couch cushions, and turned back to face him.
“What now, Parker? Gonna throw a tantrum because someone finally called you out?”
Tantrum was an understatement.
Without warning, he shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward, tripped over the baby gate still propped in the hallway, and fell—landing with a crack on the hardwood. The air whooshed out of my lungs, pain shooting through my shoulder and spine.
I gasped, trying to sit up—but he was already over the gate, already on top of me.
He pinned me to the floor, one hand pressing into my chest, the other gripping my arm. His face hovered inches from mine, eyes wild.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again,” he growled, his breath hot, his spit landing on my cheek.
I stared back at him, frozen—not because I was scared of what he’d do next, but because deep down, I knew: this was who he really was. Not the flirty boy with the baby face. Not the goofy teen who made me laugh in the beginning. This was the Parker I had been slowly uncovering, piece by piece. And now, here he was. In full view.
“Get off me,” I choked, pushing at him with both hands. “Get off!”
He stayed there a second longer, breathing hard, like he was trying to decide what to do next. Then, slowly, he stood and stormed back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
I lay there on the floor for a moment, stunned, trying to catch my breath. My entire body ached, but the worst pain came from somewhere deeper—somewhere emotional, invisible.
Lila cried softly from the couch, her little whimpers pulling me back to my feet. I went to her, scooped her up, and held her close.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
It wasn’t the last time something like that happened. Not even close.
There were nights when I’d sit on the cold bathroom floor long after everyone was asleep, knees pulled to my chest, just staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale and tired, older than it should at twenty. There were shadows under my eyes—the kind that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone. And I’d ask myself: How the hell did I end up here? Was this really my life now?
Parker wasn’t always a monster.
That’s the part that made it so damn confusing. There were days when he was kind. He’d come home with takeout and surprise me with gas station flowers, like he was trying. He’d sit on the living room floor and stack blocks with Lila, making her giggle with ridiculous voices. He’d wrap his arms around me while I cooked dinner and whisper, “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
And for a second, I’d forget. I’d forget the yelling. The way he made me feel small. The way I flinched when he raised his voice too fast or moved too suddenly. I’d hold onto those good moments like they meant something—like they were proof that underneath all the chaos, the real Parker still existed. The one I fell for when I was seventeen.
But the sweet version of him never stayed long. That guy was a visitor. The one who lived in our apartment full-time was short-tempered, impatient, and cold.
And then there was the cheating.
I started noticing the signs not long after Lila turned one. His phone was always face-down. He’d step outside to take calls. There were long “errands” that didn’t add up, and times he’d come home late with perfume I didn’t recognize clinging to his clothes.
At first, I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself I was paranoid. Insecure. That’s what he said when I confronted him, too.
But deep down, I knew I wasn’t wrong. One night, I found a text from some girl saved under a fake name. It was flirty. Explicit. There was no denying it. I held the phone in my hand for a long time before walking into the bedroom and tossing it on the bed.
“Who the hell is this?” I asked, my voice calm even though my hands were shaking.
He glanced at the screen, then at me, eyes already narrowing. “You’re seriously going through my phone now?”
“You’re cheating on me.”
He laughed. Laughed. “I’m not cheating. You’re freaking insane! I don’t know why I stay with you! You think you can find better!? No one will want you—with a kid!”
That was his favorite card to play: that no one else would want me. Not with a kid. Not with baggage. Not with the attitude he claimed I had. And the more he said it, the more I started to believe it.
“You’re overreacting,” he’d say when I cried. “You act like I’m a cheating, abusive boyfriend—and I’m not!”
As if being shoved into walls, thrown over furniture, or pinned to the floor didn’t count. As if bruises only mattered when they were shaped like fists.
He knew how to toe the line—just far enough that when I threatened to leave, he could reel me back in with half-hearted apologies and empty promises. He’d say he was stressed. That he was trying. That he just needed more time. That we could make it work.
And for too long, I believed him.
I wanted to believe him.
Because the truth was—I didn’t know how to leave. Not with a baby. Not with no money and nowhere to go. Not when I was so unsure of my own worth that I thought maybe this was the best I could get.
But deep down, a quiet voice had started whispering—this isn’t love. This isn’t what it’s supposed to feel like.
When I got pregnant again, I didn’t even cry. I was numb—but also excited. I missed Lila being small. That’s what I told myself.
I gave birth to Mila on a cold night in November. I was in labor for hours—crying, screaming. At one point, I begged Parker to rub my back.
“Can you please just help me for a second?” I asked between contractions.
He rolled over in the hospital chair. “Jesus, shut the fuck up. I’m trying to sleep.”
The nurse looked at me with a mixture of pity and judgment. I felt small.
That’s when the seed was planted—the one that whispered, you can’t do this anymore.
It grew slowly. Every time he disappeared for days. Every time he came home drunk. Every time he screamed at me in front of the girls. Every time he played the victim.
“You’re impossible to love,” he told me once after I refused to have sex with him. “You’re lucky I’m still trying.”
He thought he was a good partner. Thought I was the problem. Thought I was cold, frigid, and too emotional.
But the truth was, I was exhausted. From holding everything together. From being both mom and dad. From walking on eggshells. From pretending everything was fine.
When Mila turned one, I made a decision. I packed our things, scooped up the girls, and moved back in with my mother.
Parker didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe he knew he’d lost me. Maybe he was too drunk to care.
We lingered in that in-between space for almost a year. He’d show up a couple of times a week—sometimes for the girls, sometimes to try and charm his way back in.
“You know I love you,” he’d whisper, hands on my waist.
I’d pull away. “I don’t believe you anymore.”
He felt the shift. The distance. The emptiness.
Eventually, I cut the string completely. Stopped letting him in. It was like taking a breath after being underwater for too long.
He spiraled. Drank himself into oblivion. No job. No home. No plan.
And that’s when Camden walked into my life.
He was everything Parker wasn’t—stable, kind, sober. He had a calm energy about him, like nothing could shake him. He made me laugh—not because he was trying, but because he saw me. Really saw me.
But by then, the damage had been done.
I didn’t trust easily. I didn’t believe in fairy tales or “forevers.” I didn’t fall—I questioned. I analyzed. I waited.
Camden knew about my past. I told him bits and pieces. Enough to explain the way I flinched sometimes when voices got too loud. Enough to explain why I kept the girls close. Why I locked the bathroom door.
“You’ve been through hell,” he said once, brushing hair from my face. “But I’m not him.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But knowing doesn’t make the fear go away.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll stay until it does.”
I started trusting that. Letting myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was different. But part of me—this deep, broken part—still whispered, don’t trust anyone. Not fully. Not ever again.
I should have listened.