Madi Collins 18 And Pregnant Access

She drove home in her beat-up Honda Civic, the air conditioner broken, the summer heat pressing in like a physical weight. She parked on the street, not in the driveway, and sat there for ten minutes, watching the familiar glow of the living room TV flicker through the blinds. Her mom was home early. Of course.

Madi sat. And then she cried. Not delicate, movie tears, but the ugly, heaving sobs of an eighteen-year-old watching her scholarship, her freedom, her plans to escape this small town dissolve into diaper changes and daycare costs. Cheryl didn’t say “I told you so.” She didn’t lecture. She just pulled Madi into her arms, the way she had when Madi was five and had scraped her knee on the playground. madi collins 18 and pregnant

Madi opened her mouth. Nothing came out. So she just held up the plastic stick. She drove home in her beat-up Honda Civic,

The nurse placed a warm, squirming bundle on Madi’s chest. A girl. Six pounds, seven ounces, with a shock of dark hair and Leo’s crooked frown. Madi looked down at that small, wrinkled face and felt something crack open inside her—not her ribs, but something deeper. Something she didn’t have a name for. Of course