She drove home in her beat-up Honda Civic, the air conditioner broken, the summer heat pressing in like a physical weight. She parked on the street, not in the driveway, and sat there for ten minutes, watching the familiar glow of the living room TV flicker through the blinds. Her mom was home early. Of course.
The plastic stick on the edge of the sink had two pink lines. Madi Collins stared at them until her vision blurred, as if the lines might rearrange themselves into a single, negative line if she just concentrated hard enough. They didn’t. The cheap linoleum floor of the gas station bathroom felt cold even through the soles of her sneakers. She was eighteen years old, three weeks past high school graduation, and according to this $12 test from the drugstore, her entire future had just split into two distinct paths. madi collins 18 and pregnant
“So what do you want to do?” he asked, finally meeting her eyes. She drove home in her beat-up Honda Civic,
“Hey, little one,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m your dad.” Of course