For ten years, I had carried the same unanswered question.
So had my grandson.
His mother had died the day he was born, and she had taken the identity of his father with her.
At least, that was what I believed.
My daughter, Teagan, was only 18 when she became pregnant.
She was barely more than a child herself, and when I first found out, I was terrified.
I asked her who the father was.
Not once.
Not twice.
More times than I can remember.
Every time, she gave me the same answer.
“Mom, please. I can handle this myself.”
I asked whether he knew about the pregnancy.
She wouldn’t tell me.
I asked whether he planned to be involved.
Again, she refused to answer.
Sometimes she would smile and change the subject.
Other times, she would simply walk away.
I worried constantly.
I wasn’t angry that she was pregnant.
I was worried because I could see how much she was trying to carry by herself.
But Teagan was determined.
She kept telling me that everything would be fine.
Then the day Lucas was born, everything changed.
The delivery became complicated.
I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room, staring at the same patch of floor for what felt like hours.
