In her sophomore year of high school, Freya started dating Owen. He was a star on the soccer team, with a quick smile and a charm that lit up any room. To 16-year-old Freya, he felt like the only person who really got her.
Someone who saw past her quiet exterior to the dreams she kept tucked away. After school, Hayde talked for hours about their big plans. Moving out, renting a cramped apartment somewhere exciting, maybe even starting a business together.
Freya could already picture it. A life built side by side, something unstoppable. She was sure their love was the forever kind.
But that all shifted after graduation caps hit the ground and summer blurred into fall. Owen started pulling away, like a tide retreating from the shore. Texts went unanswered for hours, then days.
Their walks in the park dwindled to almost nothing. When they did meet up, he’d steer every conversation toward his own goals. How he needed to ace his college entrance exams.
How he’d set his sights on a top-tier university like Georgetown or Stanford. One crisp October afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and red, he stopped mid-stride on the gravel path by the park’s old oak trees. “‘Freya, we need to talk,’ he said, his voice clipped, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
Her stomach tightened, a cold knot forming. “‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, brushing a strand of dark hair from her eyes, trying to read his face. He kicked at a pebble, eyes fixed on the ground.
“‘Look, it’s just… our relationship doesn’t fit anymore. I’ve got plans, big ones. I’m applying to schools, chasing a career, and this…’ He waved a hand vaguely between them, still not meeting her gaze.
“‘It’s holding me back.’ Freya blinked, the words slicing through her like a jagged edge. “‘Holding you back?’ she echoed, her voice trembling, despite her effort to keep it steady. “‘I thought we were in this together.
You said we’d figure it all out. College, life, everything.’ “‘I know what I said.’ Owen finally looked up, but his hazel eyes were distant, resolute. “‘I’m sorry, Freya.
I’ve made up my mind. It’s better this way, for both of us.’ His tone was final, like a door slamming shut. She stood there, rooted to the spot, as he turned and walked off down the path.
His familiar blue jacket grew smaller with every step, and he didn’t glance back. Not once. The autumn wind picked up, tugging at her scarf, but she barely felt it.
Her chest ached, a hollow kind of hurt that spread until it swallowed her whole. How could he toss aside everything they’d dreamed up together, like it was just extra baggage he didn’t need? For a long time Freya stayed there, staring at the empty trail, the crunch of leaves underfoot fading into silence. Her heart was in pieces, scattered like the debris around her.
But as the days turned into weeks, she realised this was only the start of her struggles. A few weeks after Owen vanished from her life, Freya’s world took another gut punch. The signs had been creeping up.
Missed periods. A stomach that churned at the smell of coffee. She’d slipped out to the corner drugstore, snagged a test, and locked herself in the upstairs bathroom, heart thudding as she waited.
Now she sat at the scratched-up kitchen table in her family’s tidy suburban home. Her hands trembling as she clutched the pregnancy test. Two pink lines stared back, mocking her, a neon sign screaming a truth she couldn’t dodge.
Freya, dinner’s ready! Come on, it’s getting cold! Her mum hollered from the kitchen, her voice bright and oblivious over the clatter of dishes. Freya shoved the test into her sweatshirt pocket, the plastic digging into her palm. She dragged herself to the dining room, each step heavier than the last.
The air smelled of meatloaf and gravy, a Tuesday ritual. Her dad sat at the head of the table, glasses slipping down his nose as he scanned the Riverside Gazette. Her mum swept in, aprons streaked with flour, balancing a casserole dish and a bowl of mashed potatoes.
Mum, Dad, I need to talk to you, Freya mumbled, hovering by her chair, her voice thin and shaky. Her dad folded the paper with a rustle, peering at her over the rims of his glasses. What’s this about, huh? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Her mum froze mid-scoop, the serving spoon dangling, gravy dripping onto the tablecloth. Freya, honey, what’s wrong? She asked, her voice tightening, eyes darting over her daughter’s pale face. Freya’s chest squeezed, her breath hitching.
I’m pregnant, she choked out, the words splintering as they hit the air. Silence crashed down like a guillotine. The spoon clattered to the floor, splattering gravy across the linoleum.
Her mum’s hand flew to her throat, a strangled gasp escaping. Her dad’s face went from pink to a boiling red, veins bulging at his temples. The newspaper hit the table with a smack.
Pregnant? Her mum shrieked, fumbling for the napkin in her apron, twisting it into knots. Freya Marie, you disgrace us. How could you be so stupid, so reckless? What’s everyone going to say? Hold on, Ellen, her dad cut in, voice low and dangerous, shoving his chair back so hard it screeched….
He stood looming over them, fists clenched. You’re telling me you’ve gone and ruined your life? And ours? Who’s the father, huh? That Owen kid who’s been sniffing around? Freya flinched, tears stinging her eyes. It’s… it’s complicated.
He’s gone, dad. But I can handle this, I swear. I’ll figure it out.
Handle it, her mum snapped, voice rising to a near hysterical pitch. You’re seventeen. You think you can just figure out a baby? What about school? What about us? The neighbours’ll talk.
The church’ll talk. I didn’t mean for this to happen, Freya shot back, her own voice cracking as she gripped the table’s edge. You think I wanted this? I’m scared too, but I’m not running away from it.
Her dad’s laugh was bitter, a harsh bark. Scared? You should be. You’ve got no idea what you’ve done.
He jabbed a finger at her, his eyes blazing. This isn’t some little mistake you can fix with an apology. You’re not raising a kid under my roof.
End of story. Paul, don’t… her mum started, but he whirled on her. Don’t what, Ellen? Coddle her.
She’s thrown everything we gave her back in our faces. He turned back to Freya, his voice like steel. You want to play grown-up? Fine.
Handle it somewhere else. Get out. Freya’s tears broke free, streaming down her face.
You’re kicking me out? Just like that? I’m still your daughter. Not right now, you’re not, he growled, stomping toward the living room, his footsteps shaking the floor. You’ve made your bed.
Lie in it. Freya stumbled back to her room, the weight of her parents’ rejections sinking into her bones like a stone dragging her underwater. Her dad’s words, Get out, echoed in her skull, sharp and unrelenting, while her mum’s sobs faded into a dull hum downstairs.
She yanked her old duffel bag from under the bed, hands shaking as she stuffed it with whatever she could grab. A couple of sweaters, her favourite jeans, the little notebook where she’d scribbled dreams that now felt like taunts. Every creak of the floorboards seemed to scream failure, every glance at the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling a stab of grief for the girl she used to be.
Fear clawed at her chest, fear of the unknown, of the tiny life inside her, of being utterly alone. But she swallowed it down, zipping the bag shut with a final defiant tug. She paused at her desk, snatching the framed photo of her and Owen from last summer, his arms slung around her, both of them grinning at the county fair.
For a second she almost hurled it against the wall, but instead she shoved it into the bag’s side pocket. Let it be a reminder, she thought bitterly, of what trust could cost. Downstairs the dining room was a graveyard of untouched food, the meatloaf congealing in its dish.
Her mum sat hunched at the table, sniffling into her napkin, while her dad’s absence roared louder than his yelling ever had. He’d barricaded himself in the garage, no doubt. Freya hovered in the doorway, her throat tight.
I’m leaving, she said, voice raspy but steady, the duffel strap biting into her shoulder. Her mum’s head snapped up, eyes red and puffy. Freya, wait, just think about this.
Where are you even going? Does it matter? Freya shot back, the hurt spilling out. You heard dad. I’m not welcome here.
You’re twisting this, her mum cried, standing so fast the chair wobbled. We’re upset, yes, but running off isn’t the answer. What about school? What about… Upset? Freya cut in, her voice rising despite the tears burning her eyes.
You called me a disgrace. Dad told me to get out. What am I supposed to do? Pretend that didn’t happen.
Her mum opened her mouth, then closed it, clutching the edge of the table like it was the only thing holding her up. We just need time, she whispered, almost to herself. Time’s up, Freya said, turning away before her resolve cracked.
She grabbed her coat from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it a small comfort, and stepped onto the front porch. The January air hit her like a slap, sharp and frigid, stinging her cheeks and seeping through her sneakers. Snow dusted the lawn, the streetlights casting a pale glow over their quiet cul-de-sac.
She stood there, breath fogging in the dark, the duffle pulling at her arm as reality crashed in. She had nowhere to go. No Owen, no home, no plan.
Except one. Grandma Eleanor. Her dad’s mum lived two hours away in Springfield, in a little brick house with a sagging porch and a garden that bloomed even in winter.
Freya hadn’t seen her since Christmas, but she could still hear Eleanor’s gravelly voice over the phone. You’re always welcome here, kid. Always.
She’d never turn Freya away, not like this. Freya fished her phone from her pocket, fingers numb as she scrolled to her grandmother’s number. The line rang once, twice, then clicked.
Freya? That you? Eleanor’s voice crackled through, warm but edged with surprise. It’s late. What’s going on? Grandma, Freya started, her voice breaking as the dam finally burst.
I need to come stay with you. Can I… can I come now? There was a pause, a rustle on the other end, maybe Eleanor shifting in her old recliner. What’s happened, honey? You sound shook up…
I’ll explain when I get there, Freya said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Please, just… can I come? Course you can, Eleanor replied, firm and no-nonsense. Get yourself here safe.
I’ll put the kettle on. Freya hung up, the promise of shelter steadying her just enough to move. She glanced back at the house one last time, the warm light spilling from the windows, the silhouette of her mom still at the table, and then turned toward the bus stop at the end of the street.
The winter wind howling at her back. Freya stepped off the Greyhound bus in Springfield just past midnight, her sneakers crunching on the frost-dusted pavement of the station lot. The two-hour ride had been a blur of headlights and half-formed regrets, her bag a heavy anchor on her lap.
She trudged the three blocks to Eleanor’s street, the cold biting deeper with every step until the little brick house came into view, its sagging porch lit by a single yellow bulb, the garden a tangle of winter roses peeking through the snow. The front door swung open before she could even knock, and there stood Grandma Eleanor, bundled in a faded quilted robe, her silver hair pulled into a loose bun. Eleanor’s sharp grey eyes flicked over Freya’s tear-streaked face, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped like she was carrying the world.
She didn’t say a word about it, just stepped forward and pulled Freya into a hug, her arms sturdy and warm despite the frail look of her. Come on in, dear, she said, her voice rough but soft, like gravel smoothed by a river. There’s always a place for you here, you know that.
Freya nodded against her grandmother’s shoulder, the lump in her throat too big to speak around. Eleanor didn’t press, didn’t pry, just ushered her inside, the door creaking shut behind them. The house smelled of old wood and chamomile tea, a faint trace of cinnamon from the oven lingering in the air.
It was small, cluttered with decades of life, a sagging plaid couch, a shelf of chipped teacups, a radio humming low with some late night jazz station. Eleanor nudged her toward the living room. Sit, warm up, I’ll fix us something hot.
Freya sank into the couch, the springs groaning under her, and clutched her duffle like a lifeline. Eleanor shuffled back minutes later with two mugs of tea and a plate of leftover meatloaf sandwiches, crusty bread, a smear of ketchup, the kind of comfort food Freya hadn’t realised she’d missed. They ate in silence at first, the clink of forks against plates the only sound, but the weight of it all, the fight, the fear, the future, pressed too hard and Freya’s resolve cracked.
Grandma, she started setting her mug down with a shaky clatter, I messed up everything. The words tumbled out, raw and jagged. Mum and Dad, they kicked me out.
Mum said I’ve disgraced them, that I’m not their daughter anymore, and I’m… She swallowed hard, tears spilling over. I’m pregnant, I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared.
Eleanor set her own mug down, slow and deliberate, her weathered hand resting on the armrest. She let out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that carried years of her own battles, and leaned forward, fixing Freya with a steady gaze. Oh, child, she said, reaching out to pat Freya’s shoulder, her touch firm but gentle.
People say all kinds of things when they’re hurt or mad, Lord knows I’ve heard worse. But listen to me, a child’s no disgrace, it’s a blessing every time, even when it’s hard. Freya sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
They don’t see it that way, Dad told me to get out like I’m some stranger, and Owen, he’s gone, doesn’t even know. How am I supposed to do this alone? You’re not alone, Eleanor said sharply, her tone cutting through Freya’s spiral. You’ve got me, don’t you? I raised your Daddy through worse than this, and I’ll help you through it too.
We’ll manage, together. But what if I can’t? Freya whispered, her voice trembling. What if I’m not strong enough? Eleanor chuckled, a low, raspy sound, and squeezed her shoulder.
Strong enough? Girl, you walked out of that house and made it here, didn’t you? That’s more guts than most have at twice your age. You’ll figure it out, one step at a time. Now finish that sandwich before it gets cold.
Freya managed a watery smile, the first crack of light in the dark she’d been drowning in. She picked up the sandwich, the warmth of the bread seeping into her fingers, and took a bite. Eleanor leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea, the jazz crooning softly between them.
For the first time in weeks, Freya felt a flicker of warmth seep into her soul within the walls of Eleanor’s little brick house. The chill of rejection, the sting of Owen’s absence, the bite of that January night. It all started to thaw under her grandmother’s steady presence.
Eleanor didn’t just give her a roof, she gave her a lifeline, a foothold to claw her way towards something new. Freya spent the next months settling in, helping Eleanor tend the winter roses, curling up on the plaid couch with cups of chamomile tea, and letting the quiet hum of the old radio stitch her frayed edges back together. It wasn’t easy.
Her belly grew, her fears gnawed, but Eleanor’s gruff assurances kept her grounded. We’ll manage, kid. We always do.
When the time came, it was mid-August, the air thick with heat, and the promise of change. Freya’s water broke on a muggy Tuesday morning, right as she was rinsing dishes in Eleanor’s cramped kitchen. Grandma, she gasped, clutching the sink, suds dripping onto the linoleum.
Eleanor was there in a heartbeat, tossing a dish towel aside and grabbing the car keys. Let’s go, girl. Time to meet this little one.
They made it to Springfield Mercy, a small maternity hospital just off the highway, its beige walls and buzzing fluorescents a blur as Freya gripped Eleanor’s arm through the first waves of pain. Eleanor never left her side, through the paperwork, the sterile gown, the hours of contractions that left Freya breathless and swearing under her breath. You’re doing fine, honey, Eleanor murmured, her voice a steady anchor, wiping Freya’s forehead with a cool cloth.
Just keep breathing. He’s almost here. And then, after a final push that tore a cry from her throat, he was.
A tiny boy, slick and squalling, with a shock of dark, fluffy hair that glistened under the hospital lights. The nurse laid him on Freya’s chest and time seemed to stop. She stared down at him, his scrunched up face, his impossibly small fists, and her heart cracked open, flooding with a joy so fierce it stole her breath…
She cradled him close, her arms trembling, as if letting go might unravel the miracle of him. His skin was warm against hers, his little chest rising and falling like a promise. You’re my joy, she whispered, her voice thick with tears, brushing a finger over the tiny hand that latched onto hers with surprising strength.
My secret. Eleanor leaned over the bed, her lined face softening into a rare, wide grin. Look at that, she said, her voice husky with pride.
A fighter, just like his mama. What a head of hair on him. Freya laughed, a shaky, watery sound, and glanced up at her grandmother.
Sigrid, he’s perfect, isn’t he? Perfect as they come, Eleanor agreed, resting a hand on Freya’s shoulder. You did good, kid. Real good.
The room settled into a quiet hum. The beeping monitors, Sigrid’s soft whimpers, the distant chatter of nurses down the hall. Freya traced the curve of his cheek, memorising every detail.
The flutter of his lashes, the way his lips pursed like he was already dreaming. She’d been terrified of this moment, terrified of failing him, of the life ahead. But now, holding him, she felt something stronger take root.
Not just fear, but fight. For him. For them.
Think he’s hungry. Eleanor asked, nodding at the way Sigrid’s mouth rooted against Freya’s chest. Maybe, Freya said, shifting him gently, still marvelling at how fragile he felt.
Guess we’ll figure it out together, huh, little man? Eleanor chuckled, pulling a chair closer. That’s the spirit. You two’ll be just fine.
I’ve got a hunch about it. Freya smiled, exhaustion tugging at her edges. But Sigrid’s weight in her arms kept her tethered.
For the first time since that night on the porch, she believed it might be true. Years slipped by in Eleanor’s little brick house, each one stitching Freya and Sigrid tighter into its cosy fabric. Sigrid grew from a squalling bundle into a wiry, bright-eyed boy, his dark, fluffy hair now a tousled mop that caught the sunlight.
By five, he was a whirlwind of questions. Why do birds sing? How do clouds float? His curiosity as endless as the Springfield sky. Freya and Eleanor took turns answering, marvelling at how his mind raced ahead of his small frame.
But one sticky summer evening, as the crickets chirped and the air hung heavy with honeysuckle, his questions veered into sharper territory. They were out on the veranda, the old wooden boards creaking under their weight. Eleanor sat in her wicker rocker, knitting a lumpy blue scarf, her latest project, while Sigrid sprawled on the steps, a half-melted popsicle dripping orange onto his fingers.
The sun dipped low, painting the garden in shades of gold and pink, the winter roses long replaced by sprawling marigolds. He’d been quiet for a while, unusual for him, until he turned those big, serious hazel eyes on her, eyes that reminded her too much of Freya at that age. Grandma, he said, his voice cutting through the hum of dusk.
Why do all the kids at kindergarten have grandpas and grandmas, and I’ve never seen mine? Mum says you’re my great-grandma. What’s that mean? Eleanor’s knitting needles stilled, the yarn tangling in her lap. She’d known this day would come, kids always sniffed out the gaps in their stories, but the weight of it still caught her off guard.
She set the scarf aside, folding her hands to buy a moment, her weathered fingers tracing the lines of a life that hadn’t been easy. Sigrid watched her, popsicle forgotten, his brow furrowing like he could sense the shift. Sigrid, she started, her voice soft but steady.
That’s not a simple question, sweetheart. It’s… well, it’s a grown-up mess, and you’re still little. But I’ll try.
Sometimes adults make mistakes. Big ones. Your grandpa and grandma, my son and his wife, they got scared a long time ago.
He tilted his head, confusion wrinkling his nose. Scared? Of what? Me? He sat up straighter, the popsicle stick clattering onto the step. I was just a baby when I got borned.
How could they be scared of a baby? Eleanor chuckled faintly, though her chest tightened. Not of you, exactly, little man. It’s hard to explain till you’re older, but I’ll give it a go.
When your mum found out you were coming, it shook them up. They couldn’t see how special it was, how special you’d be. They got stuck worrying about what folks around town might whisper, instead of how much your mum wanted you.
Sigrid’s frown deepened, his small hands bawling into fists. So they didn’t want me. His voice wobbled, barely above a whisper, and the hurt in it sliced straight through her.
No, no, darling, Eleanor said quickly, leaning forward to cup his sticky cheek in her palm. That’s not true, not for a second. They just… They didn’t know what to do with their feelings.
People can be slow to figure things out, and sometimes they miss the good stuff till it’s gone. But your mum… She chose love from the start. Chose you.
That’s what matters most. He stared at her, processing, then turned his gaze out to the garden. The last rays of sun glinted off the marigolds, and a breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint buzz of a lawnmower down the street.
But you’re here, he said finally, glancing back at her, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. You’re always with me, right, Grandma? Always, my dear, Eleanor replied, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She reached out, ruffling his hair.
Because family’s not just who you’re born to, it’s who sticks by you. Who loves you through the thick of it, and I ain’t going anywhere. Sigrid grinned, a gap-toothed flash that chased the shadows off his face.
Good, he said, picking up his popsicle stick to fiddle with it. Because I like it better with you anyway. Eleanor laughed, a low, warm sound, and picked up her knitting again.
Me too, kiddo, me too. The rocker creaked as she settled back, the evening wrapping around them like a quilt, imperfect. Patched, but holding fast.
Freya stood at the kitchen sink, her hands wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a pot that didn’t need scrubbing. Through the open window, the murmur of Sigrid’s voice and Eleanor’s gravelly replies drifted in from the veranda, carried on the warm August breeze. She’d caught the tail end of it.
They didn’t want me. And her breath hitched, the sponge slipping from her fingers to plop into the suds. Tears welled up, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks before she could blink them back…
She pressed a damp hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. That old wound, her parents’ rejection, the sting of being cast out, ripped open anew, hearing Sigrid wrestle with it. But Eleanor’s voice, steady and kind, wove through the pain like a balm, softening the edges.
As always, her grandmother knew just what to say, shielding Sigrid’s tender heart without dodging the truth. Mum? Sigrid’s voice piped up from the doorway, snapping her out of it. He padded in, barefoot and sticky-fingered, his popsicle stick still clutched like a prize.
You okay? Your eyes are all wet? Freya swiped at her face with a dish towel, forcing a smile. Yeah, buddy, I’m fine. Just got some soap in my eyes.
Stings like crazy. She turned back to the sink, rinsing the pot for the third time. How’s Grandma’s scarf coming along? It’s lumpy, he said with a giggle, hopping onto a stool at the counter.
She says it’s character. I think it’s funny-looking. Sounds like Grandma, Freya said, her laugh shaky but real.
