When I told my parents I was pregnant at sixteen, they threw me out. One day I had a place to live; the next I had a backpack and nowhere to go. I was still a kid myself—scared, alone, and trying to survive one day at a time.
At eight months pregnant, sharp pain woke me one morning. I knew something was wrong. I got myself to the hospital, shaking and terrified, with no one to call.
Hours later, a doctor said the words that shattered me: “There’s no heartbeat.”
My baby boy didn’t survive. I never held him. I never said goodbye. I had never felt more alone.
But one person refused to leave me.
A maternity nurse stayed long past her shift every night. She brushed my hair when I couldn’t move, brought me tea, and spoke to me like I mattered.
“You are stronger than you know,” she whispered. “This isn’t the end of your story.”
I believed her because I needed to.
Eight years later, my life looked different. One morning, I froze while watching TV—there she was, retired after decades as a maternity nurse, promoting her memoir.
The next day, she knocked on my door.
She handed me a signed copy. Inside was an entire chapter about me—my loss, my courage, the night she stayed.
I sobbed.
I introduced her to my five-year-old son, and she cried as he hugged her.
Her book still sits on my nightstand—a reminder that sometimes, one kind stranger keeps you alive.
