I was driving to the abortion clinic because of poverty and debts, but turned back for my ID. In the mailbox was a letter: my childless aunt, whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years, left me her entire inheritance, but with one STRANGE condition…

That day, I was driving to kill my future. Not because I wanted to, but because my boyfriend Brandon had convinced me that otherwise we’d drown in debt. I was already sitting in my old car, tears streaming down my cheeks, when I reached for my bag to check the appointment one more time and realized I’d left my ID at home.

And if it weren’t for that stupid accident, if I hadn’t turned the car around and checked the mailbox, I would never have known that my childless great-aunt, whom I considered almost a myth, had prepared a completely different fate for me and my unborn child. One with no room for fear and despair. My name is Ashley, I’m 28 years old, and for the last two years, my life has felt like an endless treadmill.

Two jobs: cashier at the supermarket during the day, cleaning offices at night, a rented apartment on the outskirts where rusty water dripped from the faucet, and an eternal feeling of exhaustion so deep that sometimes I’d fall asleep fully clothed, unable to make it to bed. And there was Brandon beside me; we met three years ago, and back then he seemed reliable and strong. He spoke beautifully about the future, about how we’d overcome everything, how he’d find a good job and we’d live like normal people.

But time passed, and Brandon kept bouncing between temp gigs, blaming his failures on the economy, unfair bosses, or just a bad mood. I believed him, I pulled us both along, cooked dinners from scraps, and mended his only pair of jeans, hoping things would turn around soon. When I saw the two lines on the test, my first reaction was a quiet, almost frightened joy.

Finally, there’d be meaning in my gray life, a little ray of light. But that joy faded that same evening when I saw Brandon’s face. He didn’t yell, no.

He was a master of quiet, draining pressure. That evening, he sat across from me in the kitchen, took my hands in his, and started speaking in his soft, persuasive voice. «Ashley, honey, you know we can’t afford this.

Where would we put a kid right now? We’re buried in debt. Rent to pay, loans for the appliances. Do you want our baby growing up in poverty, watching his parents count every penny? Is that fair to him?» Each word was like a small, precise stab.

He painted pictures of our joyless future. A crying, hungry infant, me exhausted and aged, him broken by the unbearable burden. «Let’s get on our feet first,» he said, looking straight into my eyes.

«Buy our own place, I’ll find steady work, and then, then we’ll have kids—not one, but two, three, as many as you want. But now, honey, it’s just irresponsible. I’m saying this because I love you and I’m thinking of our future together.»

And I gave in. His logic seemed ironclad, and my timid hope felt foolish and selfish. The next week, I walked around in a fog.

Brandon surrounded me with fake care, bringing tea, letting me off night shifts, booking me at a private clinic himself so it would be quick and painless. That care suffocated me. I felt less like a loved woman and more like a problem to be solved fast.

That morning, he woke me earlier than usual. Coffee and a sandwich that wouldn’t go down were already on the table. «Eat up, you need your strength,» he said, laying money on the table.

I stared at those bills, and they felt like payment for betraying myself. The whole drive to the clinic, I was silent, gripping the wheel of my old car. Brandon didn’t come with me, claiming an urgent work meeting.

I knew he was lying; he just didn’t want to be there for it, didn’t want to see my tears or dirty his conscience. He wanted the result and to move on like before. Inside, everything went numb.

I was alone. Completely alone in the world. The clinic was in the city center, in a quiet old building.

I parked around the corner, turned off the engine, and sat for a few minutes, staring at nothing. Tears dripped onto my jeans again. I placed my hand on my belly.

There was life there. My tiny secret, unwanted by anyone but me. «Forgive me, baby,» I whispered into the void.

Gathering my last bit of will, I reached for the bag on the passenger seat. I needed to grab the folder with documents and tests. I opened the bag, rummaged, and found nothing.

My mind cleared slowly. The folder. The blue plastic one.

Where was it? I clearly remembered packing it last night: ID, insurance card, all the papers from the consultations. And I’d left it. Left it on the hall table.

First reaction: dull irritation at my own scatterbrain. How could I forget the most important thing? But right after that irritation came another wave, completely unexpected. A wave of relief.

So huge it took my breath away. I had a reason. I had a reprieve…