When I found out I was pregnant at 20, I wasn’t ready to tell anyone—not friends, not family. Just my boyfriend, my doctor, and me. It was overwhelming—equal parts fear and wonder.
I chose a well-reviewed OB-GYN clinic for my first appointment, hoping for privacy. But as I walked in, I froze. Behind the desk stood Monica—an old friend of my mom’s.
I hoped she’d be professional. Healthcare has rules, right?
But after my appointment, when I got home, my mom was already celebrating. Monica had texted her. Just like that, my most personal moment had been taken from me.
My trust shattered. My control—gone.
Later, with my mom’s urging, I confronted Monica at dinner. She denied wrongdoing, said she “helped” me. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even understand.
So I filed a formal complaint. Not out of cruelty, but to protect the next young woman who might not be so lucky.
Monica was suspended. My mom was upset. But I stood firm.
I didn’t ruin her life. She did.
Weeks passed. I told my story on my own terms—when I was ready. My baby, my life, my voice.
Not everyone deserves access to your story. Especially when you’re still writing it.
