Sometimes you fall so hard you can’t get back up. My closest companions now are
shame and loss. But a sliver of hope lies in the only person I have left in
this world – the one who’s growing inside me.
Survival becomes living again because of my child, and the town where I begin
anew. That’s where I meet the man who starts to melt the ice inside my heart.
As we get closer, reminders of my past become sharper. Clearer. To confront the pain, I have to discover what’s deep down inside me. Is there enough left there
to become whole again, or am I too wounded to heal?**Warning** This book has mature content that some readers may find troubling.
It is intended for readers 18 and up.
Today I’d eaten lunch in a closed bathroom stall at school to avoid the stares. And instead I got to listen to Mandy Barton telling two other girls that she’d slept with Levi last night to comfort him over what his slutty girlfriend had done to him. They’d speculated about who the father of my child was, eventually deciding on Mr. Schultz, a teacher and coach at my school whom I’d never even spoken to. I was on the outskirts of our small city, walking past a rusted, abandoned factory, when a car slowed to a stop nearby. I turned to see a marked police car. A familiar sick taste rose in my throat. My dad was giving me a puzzled glance from a rolled down window, his elbow resting on the door. “Ivy, what are you doing out here? It’s the dead of winter and you’re miles from home.” “What are you doing here? Are you following me?” My icy tone was challenging. What was there to be afraid of now? He’d stolen the vulnerable, trusting part of me. He’d shown me that there was no one in my life I could count on. “I was on patrol and I saw you,” he said, glaring at me. “Get in the car and I’ll drive you home. We need to talk.” “Talk? Is that code?” I spat out bitterly. His face was a mix of contrition and anger. “Ivy. Let’s not do this. Get in the car.” “No.” “What’s this I hear about you being pregnant? Is it true?” A powerful wave of nausea swept through me. He didn’t deserve to know, and he certainly didn’t deserve to ask me about it.
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About Brenda Rothert
She loves to hear from readers by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.