I became a mother at seventeen—and my parents took my baby from me. Now, twenty-one years later, the man living next door looks exactly like the child I lost.

I’m thirty-eight today. My life appears simple: a stable job, a quiet routine, and my father staying in my spare room—now dependent on me in ways regret never managed to achieve.

From the outside, it all seems peaceful.

But it isn’t.

I was still a teenager when I found out I was pregnant.