I was seventeen when I got pregnant, and the first thing I felt wasn’t fear. It was shame. Not because of the babies—I loved them before I even knew I was carrying two—but because I learned, almost instantly, how to make myself smaller. I learned to walk hallways without drawing attention, to angle my body behind cafeteria trays, to smile while my life veered sharply away from the one everyone else seemed to be living. While other girls worried about homecoming dresses and college applications, I learned how to keep crackers down between classes and whether swollen ankles meant I...
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