My mother kicked me out of the house the very night she found out I was pregnant. Five years went by and she never contacted me, nor had she ever seen her grandchild. Then, after meeting the baby’s father, she wanted to come back into my life.

Alessandro looked at her hand, then back at her face. “You are the woman who threw out your pregnant daughter?” he asked quietly. My mother stammered something about tough love and teaching responsibility.

Alessandro pulled out his phone and showed her something. Her face went pale. “This is the report from the shelter where your daughter spent her first month without a home,” he said.

“It lists her as an abandoned youth. This is the social services file showing she applied for emergency housing while eight months pregnant. This is the hospital record showing she gave birth alone while listed as unable to pay.”

My mother opened her mouth.

“Would you like me to continue?” he asked. She tried to explain, but Alessandro swiped to another screen and turned the phone toward her. His voice stayed quiet, but every word landed like a door locking.

The shelter intake form filled the display with my name at the top and a red checkbox beside abandoned minor. My mother tried to speak again, but Alessandro asked whether she wanted him to continue through the five years of documentation