Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

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….