When I got pregnant at 18, my parents kicked me out. I packed quietly and left. My sister was 13, and she stood by the door crying. I cried, too, but I could not stay in a home that did not want me. I went no contact and heard nothing for years.
Then one afternoon, someone knocked on my door. It was my sister. She looked older, tired, and scared. She burst into tears as soon as I opened the door. “Mom and Dad are here too,” she said. “They missed you.”
I froze. I had no idea how she even found my place. She told me she spent years begging them to look for me. Every birthday. Every holiday. Every time she saw a girl who looked like me. She said she never stopped.
When my parents stepped into view behind her, I felt my chest tighten. My sister grabbed my hand and whispered, “Please come home. I can’t lose you again.”
In that moment, I realized she had carried the weight of our broken family on her small shoulders. She was the reason they came back. She was the reason I was not forgotten.
