My name is unimportant, but the story I’m about to tell is not. To understand how it ends, you first need to know how it began.
My story starts in San Jose, California, on a crisp autumn morning. The air was cold, the sun barely rising. I was sixteen years old and didn’t yet know I was pregnant with my second child. I was living with my mom and dad in the bottom unit of a four-plex apartment. At that time, my parents were very unhappy with me because I was dating a twenty-one-year-old man named John. (Please don’t judge—just keep reading.) John and I had been together for about eight months, and we were deeply in love. In my heart, I truly believed he was the man I would spend my life with.
But there were many obstacles standing in our way, the biggest being his age. Because of that, I never brought him home to meet my parents. They knew he existed, but they had never met him. I was constantly torn between the people who raised me and the person I loved. I tried again and again to explain my feelings to my mom, but every attempt ended the same way—with yelling, and sometimes even a slap across my face, followed by the words, “Don’t you ever bring that man to this house.”
At the same time, John was pressuring me to choose between him and my parents. He told me I had the weekend to decide. I was overwhelmed. That Friday afternoon, I spent hours going back and forth in my mind, weighing whether I should stay with my parents or leave to build a life with John. I had no idea what I was going to do.
The next morning, I woke up feeling sick—nauseous, weak, and exhausted—but I didn’t have a fever. My mom came into my room angry and yelling for no clear reason. All I could do was turn over and cry into my pillow. I stayed in my room all day Saturday with my one-year-old daughter, Tiffany. By Sunday morning, I felt a little better physically, and after two days of nonstop thinking, I finally made my decision. I couldn’t wait to see John on Monday and tell him. I had already started packing some of my belongings so I’d be ready to leave. I felt light, hopeful—almost like I was walking on air. Now all that remained was waiting for Sunday to pass and Monday to begin my future with John and my daughter.
Time moved painfully slow. Minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like days. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I fell asleep. I woke up Monday morning at 8:27 a.m. I was supposed to meet John around the corner of my house at noon. I remember thinking how happy he was going to be. I jumped out of bed, rushed to the shower, and got myself ready. Carefully, I slipped my suitcase out the bedroom window so my mom wouldn’t see it. Once outside, I grabbed my bag and hurried to our meeting spot. I arrived a little early, which gave me time to catch my breath and fix myself up.
Noon came—and John didn’t.
I waited another hour. Then another. Still no John.
Confused and scared, I walked to a nearby store and used a payphone to call his cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. A terrible feeling settled in my stomach. Had he changed his mind? Did he leave me? I felt completely broken. I wandered aimlessly for a while, questioning everything I might have done wrong. I felt utterly alone.
Eventually, I went back home. Not long after, the phone rang. It was the police. They asked if I knew John. When I said yes, they told me they found my number in his phone and were calling to inform me that he had been in a serious car accident. I asked which hospital he was taken to and rushed there immediately. But when I arrived, I was told I couldn’t see him because I wasn’t family. I begged. I pleaded. No one listened.
I sat in that hospital for hours, repeatedly asking for updates. Eventually, a nurse told me to go home because John’s family didn’t want me there. My heart shattered. I broke down and couldn’t move. After some time, I called my stepdad and asked him to come get me. Once home, I went straight to my room and cried the entire night.
Later that evening, a friend told me John didn’t make it. I wasn’t sure if it was true. I tried to reach his family, but they turned me away. Soon after, I started feeling sick again—violently sick. I couldn’t stop vomiting. This felt different, and it continued all night into morning.
Something felt very wrong. I rushed to the store and bought a pregnancy test. When I took it, I collapsed into tears. It was positive. Panic set in. The father of my baby was dead. I already had a one-year-old. I didn’t know how I would survive this. I made an appointment with Planned Parenthood, and during the exam, I learned I wasn’t just pregnant—I was four months along and hadn’t known it. I decided to keep the baby as a piece of John, believing I was carrying a baby girl.
During my pregnancy, my mom despised me for keeping the baby. She tried everything—short of physical violence—to make me give her up. She forced me to choose: either keep the baby I was pregnant with and give up the child I had already raised for a year, or give up the unborn baby. I was devastated. How could anyone ask a mother to choose between her children? I refused. My children weren’t pets—they were my babies.
On April 5th, 1990, my daughter was born. I heard a faint cry—and then my mother telling the doctor to “get the baby out of here” because “we’re not keeping it.” I was never allowed to see her. She was taken from me immediately. I was in shock.
My mother put her up for adoption. I was told I had no choice because I was a minor and she was my legal guardian. Later, my mom told me the baby looked just like my first child—a cruel blow to my heart. That night, the adoption agency arrived with paperwork. I begged to write my baby a letter, explaining this wasn’t my choice. I then overheard a nurse say my baby had a severe infection. The next day, my mom told me my daughter had complications.
“She didn’t make it.”
I didn’t think I could survive that loss. But somehow, by the grace of God, I did. Every year on April 5th, I sang Happy Birthday to my daughter and sank into deep depression.
You probably think this is where the story ends—but it wasn’t. It was the beginning of a new chapter.
Two years later, I met a man named Eric. We’ve now been married for twenty-eight years and share three children—two sons and a daughter. He gave me back the joy that was taken from me so young. Without him, I might not be here today.
Then, twenty-nine years later, I received an email from Ancestry.com. A young man named Kristin wrote, “I believe you’re my mother.” I was stunned. The child I gave birth to was a girl—and I was told she died. A DNA test matched mine. I ran out of class crying and called my husband. I knew in my heart.
Kristin later told me he was born female but is transgender. He was born on April 6th, 1990, in the same hospital, adopted six days later by a loving family.
After eight months of communication, Kristin and his family came to visit us for Thanksgiving. For the first time, I held the child I was told had died.
Yes—this is a happy ending to a tragic beginning.
Looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing. Through it all, I learned to never give up on God. Everything happened for a reason. Now, I can finally be the mother I was always meant to be.
