It was just three days after my eighteenth birthday when I found myself standing in the bathroom, staring in disbelief at the home pregnancy test in my trembling hands. Two dark, bold lines stared back at me—lines that signaled my worst fear. I was pregnant. Weeks of relentless nausea and constant vomiting had me exhausted, yet it never occurred to me that I could be expecting—until my mom asked if I might be.
“I can’t be pregnant! I can’t! I’ll get an abortion—I have to! I’m leaving for the Army in three months!” I screamed, pacing and shaking, my panic spilling out in waves. My mom’s tearful voice shouted back, trying to reason with me. I had made plenty of mistakes as a teenager, but this one felt monumental—life-changing. “You cannot have an abortion. You just can’t.” Those words echoed in my head, but all I could see was the life I thought I had ruined. How could I join the Army now? How could I be pregnant at eighteen?
Overcome by fear, I grabbed my phone, my wallet, and a few essentials, tossing them into a backpack. I called a close friend, and she answered on the second ring. Through my sobs, I spilled everything. Without hesitation, she came to get me. Returning home felt surreal—I felt lost, unsure how to process the whirlwind inside me. Even worse, I didn’t know if the baby was my boyfriend’s or the result of a brief fling with another guy. I told both potential fathers, but I couldn’t bring myself to confess to my boyfriend that the baby might not be his. The shame was paralyzing—I couldn’t even meet his eyes.
Eventually, my mom scheduled an appointment with an OBGYN. She later admitted she hoped seeing the baby might stop me from seeking an abortion. It did. In the quiet room of the doctor’s office, I watched the ultrasound screen with tears streaming down my face. “Congratulations! You’re about seven weeks along, and if you look right there, that’s your little nugget,” the technician said, her smile radiating warmth. I stared at the tiny flicker of life, my baby’s heartbeat strong and clear, and something inside me shifted. I couldn’t end that life—I couldn’t.
The final months of high school were anything but easy. My sickness became visible, my personality more withdrawn, my social life nearly vanished. Friendships shifted, especially with a guy I had been close to—tensions grew, complicated by the lingering uncertainty about my baby’s father. My military contract evaporated; they couldn’t send a pregnant girl to basic training. My parents and I clashed as I stubbornly held onto the desire to keep my baby, even though I knew I couldn’t give her all she needed.
The truth about the father eventually had to come out. I had no clear answer, only two possibilities. My mom took me for a DNA test, and I prayed that it would confirm my boyfriend as the father. I wanted to raise her together, to make life simpler. Two weeks later, the results arrived—they weren’t what I had hoped. My daughter wasn’t his, and I knew he needed the truth. I avoided the conversation for months, terrified he would leave. One night, I finally called, trembling as I confessed everything.
“Beth, I forgive you,” he said quietly. I remember the words piercing through my hysteria, offering relief amidst my guilt. He was hurt, yes, but his forgiveness allowed me to breathe again.
After facing the reality of my choices, I began looking for an adoptive family for my daughter. I knew she deserved stability and love I couldn’t provide. A trusted older woman from my church offered guidance and introduced me to potential families. I met two hopeful couples—the daughter of my church friend and her husband, and a young surgeon with her steady boyfriend. My heart chose the Maples, the church friend’s daughter and her husband. They were kind, stable, and eager to offer the open, loving adoption I wanted. Even the father of my child agreed—they felt right. From attending doctor’s appointments to forming a genuine friendship, the Maples became an extension of my family.
Labor was overwhelming and emotional. My mom stayed with me in the delivery room while the adoptive parents, my daughter’s father, and our families waited anxiously. After sixteen hours of labor, we welcomed Ruth Apphia Maples into the world. Holding her, tiny and perfect, I was flooded with love and pride. Seeing the Maples’ tears and adoration, I knew I had made the right choice. Though it was the hardest decision of my life, it brought blessings I never could have imagined: lasting friendships, a stronger relationship with my fiancé, and a deeper bond with my parents.
The road ahead is far from easy, but I hope my story reaches another young, scared mother and offers hope. Adoption wasn’t easy, but it was about giving my daughter the best life possible. Being part of Ruth’s life through open adoption has been a gift, a beautiful blending of families born through trials. It’s proof that even in the darkest moments, love and hope can shine through.
