I need to tell you about the father of my baby. Because his name is the reason my father threw me out. And it’s the reason, ten years later, my father’s hands started shaking.
His name was Caleb Monroe.
If you grew up in Lancaster, Ohio, in the 1990s and 2000s, you knew the name Monroe. Monroe Tool and Die was the biggest employer in Fairfield County for forty years. Seven hundred people worked there. My dad was one of them. He ran a CNC machine on second shift for twenty-two years.
And in 2009, when I was ten years old, Caleb’s father, Thomas Monroe, closed the plant.
He sold the company to a firm in Mexico. Seven hundred people lost their jobs two weeks before Christmas. My father came home that night with a cardboard box with his name written on it in black marker. He sat at the kitchen table holding a severance check for $4,800. Twenty-two years.
He never forgave the Monroes. Not for one single day.
He spat on the sidewalk in front of Monroe Savings Bank downtown. He wouldn’t shop at any store a Monroe sat on the board of. When Thomas Monroe died of a heart attack two years later, my father said, at our dinner table, “Good riddance,” and my mother didn’t even tell him to hush.
So when I fell in love with Thomas Monroe’s only son, I knew I could never say his name in my father’s house.
Caleb and I met in the summer after my senior year. He was home from Ohio State, working at the library to annoy his rich grandmother, he said. I was shelving books for minimum wage. He came around the end of the biography section and caught me reading a book I was supposed to be putting away.
“That one’s good,” he said. “But the ending will wreck you.”
He was funny. He was kind. He was nothing like what my father said the Monroes were. He’d been fourteen when his dad closed the plant. He told me once that he still couldn’t drive past the empty building without feeling sick.
“My dad did that,” he said. “I’m going to spend my whole life trying to make it up to this town.”
We were together for eight months. In secret. Because I knew what my father would do.
And on a rainy Thursday in March, three weeks before I found out I was pregnant, Caleb was driving home from Columbus on Route 33. A semi crossed the center line.
He died at the scene. He was twenty years old.
I went to his funeral and stood in the very back of the church, behind a pillar, so nobody would see me. I watched his grandmother, Margaret Monroe, a tiny white-haired woman in a black wool coat, put her hand flat on his casket and keep it there for so long the minister had to help her sit down.
Caleb was all she had left. Her husband was gone. Her son, Thomas, was gone. And now her only grandson.
Three weeks later, I sat on a bathroom floor and stared at two pink lines.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.