I was 13 years old when my own father threw me out into a cold Ohio rain because I was carrying a baby.

I still remember the way the front door shook when it slammed behind me.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back to the moment everything fell apart.

My name is Abigail Bennett, and I grew up in a small town called Cedar Hollow, Ohio.

My parents, Harold and Patricia Bennett, were respected people in that town.

My father owned a hardware store on Main Street.

My mother led the ladies’ prayer circle at the Cedar Hollow Community Church.

From the outside, we looked like the perfect family.

But inside our house, perfection had sharp edges.

I was thirteen years old and I had just learned I was going to have a baby.

I was terrified.

I didn’t know how to tell them.

So I hid it for as long as I could.

But a neighbor had seen me getting sick outside the school nurse’s office.

Word travels fast in a small town.

By the time I walked through our front door that evening, my parents already knew.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Abigail?”

My father’s voice thundered through the house.

I cowered near the hallway, unable to meet his eyes.

My hands trembled as they clutched the hem of my shirt.

The house smelled like lemon polish and simmering anger.

My mother sat on the couch with her arms folded across her chest.

Her eyes were as cold as the rain that was beginning to tap against the windows.

“Shameless,” my mother whispered, and then she said it louder.

“Shameless. So young and already pregnant. My God, how could I have given birth to someone like this?”

Her voice was steady, but every word cut into me like a blade.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” I stammered.

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

They burned down my cheeks like fire.

My father slammed his hand down on the dining room table.