I left the hospital empty-handed, my body aching, my heart hollow. I went home to a room that still smelled like antiseptic and fear. I folded baby clothes I would never use. I dropped out of school. I worked odd jobs. I survived—but only barely.
Three years passed.
Then one afternoon, while I was leaving a grocery store, a woman called my name.
I turned around—and froze.
It was her.
The nurse.
She looked exactly the same, holding a small envelope in one hand and a photograph in the other. When she handed them to me, my fingers shook.
Inside the envelope was a scholarship application.
And the photo—
It was me.
Seventeen years old. Sitting on that hospital bed. Eyes swollen, face pale, but still upright. Still breathing. Still alive.
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