That’s what I meant when I told my parents it would affect all of us.
I couldn’t end that pregnancy. It wasn’t just my baby. It was the very last piece of Caleb left in this world. The last of the Monroes.
And I couldn’t tell my father, because I knew exactly what he’d say. A Monroe? Under my roof?
So I said nothing. And he threw me out anyway.
I spent that first night in my car in the Walmart parking lot on Memorial Drive. The second night too. On the third day, I drove to my friend Tasha’s apartment in Columbus and slept on her couch for six weeks.
Then I got in my car with everything I owned and drove west until I couldn’t afford any more gas.
I ended up in Indianapolis. I got a job on the overnight shift at a nursing home on the south side, changing bedpans and turning patients for $11.25 an hour. I rented a room above a laundromat. I picked up a second job on weekends, bagging groceries at Kroger.
I changed my phone number. I didn’t call home. Not once.
I wrote my mother one letter, when I was seven months along. Just one page. I told her I was okay. I told her I was keeping the baby. I told her I loved her.
The letter came back two weeks later. Unopened. “Return to Sender” written across the front in my father’s blocky handwriting.
Grace was born on a snowy night in November at Eskenazi Hospital. Seven pounds, two ounces. Caleb’s dark eyebrows. Caleb’s dimple in her left cheek.
A nurse named Doris held my hand through twenty hours of labor because there was nobody else to hold it. When Grace finally came out screaming, Doris cried right along with me.
“What’s her name, honey?” she asked.
I looked down at that tiny, furious, perfect face.
“Grace,” I said.
Because that’s what I needed. And that’s what my parents never gave me.
I filled out her birth certificate in the hospital bed the next morning. Under “Father,” I wrote his name, as clear as I could. Caleb Thomas Monroe. Deceased.
I didn’t know yet that writing his name on that piece of paper would change everything.
The next three years were the hardest of my life.
I worked nights. I took Grace to a neighbor lady, Mrs. Ortiz, who watched her for $100 a week. I enrolled at Ivy Tech Community College and took prerequisite classes during the day, two at a time. I studied in the nursing home break room at three in the morning with a highlighter and a cup of vending machine coffee.
Some months, I didn’t know how we’d make rent. Some nights, I ate peanut butter crackers for dinner so Grace could have the chicken.
But every single time I looked at her, I found another reason to keep going.
And then, when Grace was three years old, there was a knock on my door.
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.
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