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…

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…