The night my world collapsed, the air was filled with the scent of lavender detergent mixed with burnt toast. My mother had made herself a late-night snack, but the bread had stayed in the toaster too long, the edges blackened. That smell blended with the sharpness of her words—words I’ll never forget:

“If you decide to keep that baby, you can’t stay here. I won’t accept it.”

I was seventeen. I held my breath to keep from crying. My father stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His silence hit me harder than my mother’s rage. He wouldn’t even look at me—and that was what hurt most. In his eyes I read shame, disappointment, maybe even disgust.

My hand instinctively rested on the faint curve of my belly. I was barely four months pregnant, hardly showing, but just enough that I could no longer hide it under oversized sweaters. I had been terrified to confess it… but a small part of me hoped they’d soften, remember I was still their daughter. I was wrong.

That night, with nowhere to go, I stuffed the essentials into a duffel bag: some clothes, my toothbrush, my school notebooks, and the ultrasound photo tucked inside one of them. My parents didn’t stop me as I walked out. My mother turned her back. My father, still on the porch, lit a cigarette, his face set like stone. The slam of the door behind me sealed their decision: I was no longer their daughter.

I wandered for hours through the quiet streets of our small town. The air was cool, streetlamps stretching long shadows across the pavement. Each step felt heavier than the last. Where could I go? My best friend’s house? Impossible—her parents were strict, religious, and would never take me in. And the boy who should’ve been responsible—my boyfriend—had disappeared the moment I told him I was pregnant. “I’m not ready to be a father,” he had said, as if I were ready to be a mother.

By midnight, I was sitting on a park bench, clutching my bag, my stomach churning with fear and hunger. The night closed in around me, and I had never felt so completely alone.

And then—the unthinkable happened.

A figure appeared at the end of the path: a woman of at least seventy, walking with surprising energy. She wore a long purple coat, mismatched gloves—one red, one green—a scarf wrapped three times around her neck, and a wide-brimmed hat from which silver curls spilled out. She pushed a little cart covered with stickers and charms that jingled with every step.

She spotted me instantly and, instead of crossing the street like most would, she came straight toward me.

“Well,” she said in a lively voice, somehow both firm and warm, “you look like a lost little bird in the wrong tree.”

I blinked, unable to answer.

“I… I don’t have anywhere to go,” I whispered.

“Don’t worry, we all feel that way sometimes,” she said, settling beside me. “My name’s Dolores. But everyone around here calls me Dolly. And you are?”

“Marissa,” I said after a pause.

“Pretty name.” She smiled, tugging at her gloves. Her eyes, the clearest blue, studied me carefully before landing on my belly. “Ah… so that’s the story.”

My cheeks burned. “My parents kicked me out,” I murmured.

“Then they stopped being parents the moment they did that,” she said firmly. “Their loss. Come on, up you get. You’re coming home with me.”

I stared at her, stunned. “But… I don’t even know you.”