But I would be lying if I said the image of her behind that mesh, close enough to touch and choosing not to, does not still visit me sometimes in the small hours.

Some wounds close over and still ache when the weather changes.

So that was where I found myself, at nineteen years old.

Pregnant.

Homeless.

Cut off from the only family I had, standing on a porch in the fading light with a duffel bag and a positive test and no plan in the world beyond the next hour, and then the hour after that.

I remember looking back at the house once, at the warm yellow light in the windows, at the shape of my mother behind the screen, and then I remember making myself turn around and walk down the steps and out to the street, because I understood that if I looked too long I would lose my nerve, and that I could not afford, now, to lose anything else.