The creaking stairs of the old Victorian house told a story of their own. Abigail Hawthorne, 17, was well-acquainted with their groans—she’d walked them carefully since she was a child, fearing the wrath of her father, Walter. Walter was a man of strict rules, a voice that thundered like a storm, and a vision of a household stuck in another century. “Women belong in the kitchen, in the nursery, and in the shadow of men,” he’d often proclaim, as though it was scripture.

Abigail never dared to challenge him. Not directly. Instead, she found solace in books tucked away in the school library—stories of women who fought, who lived boldly, who escaped. It was in these tales that Abigail nurtured her silent rebellion, even as she folded napkins perfectly for Walter’s dinner table.

Her mother, Diane, was no ally. Diane had been molded by Walter long before Abigail was born. She moved like a ghost through the house, carrying trays of food, speaking only in hushed tones. To Abigail, her mother was a cautionary tale: what happens when a woman is swallowed whole by a man’s expectations.

Abigail’s life took a sharp turn during her junior year of high school. She met Caleb, a charismatic senior with a penchant for rebellion. Caleb wasn’t like her father—he was sweet, with a crooked smile and eyes that lit up when he saw her. For the first time, Abigail felt seen, like someone valued her for more than her ability to make biscuits from scratch.

Their relationship blossomed in secret. Caleb told her stories of his plans to leave their small town, to make something of himself. Abigail clung to his dreams as though they were her own lifeboat. When she discovered she was pregnant, the lifeboat shattered.

Abigail sat on the edge of the bathtub, clutching the pregnancy test in her trembling hands. The two pink lines stared back at her, unyielding, undeniable. She wanted to scream, but the fear of her father’s wrath and her mother’s disappointment locked the sound in her throat. Instead, she bit her lip until she tasted blood, the pain grounding her in the chaos.

Caleb didn’t react the way she’d hoped. When she told him, his eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed with panic. “I—I can’t do this, Abby,” he stammered, pacing the length of the park where they’d met after school. “I have my whole life ahead of me. College, my music ... I can’t throw it all away.”

“What about my life?” Abigail snapped, the first time she’d ever raised her voice at anyone but herself. “What about our child?”

Caleb didn’t answer. His silence said everything. He muttered something about being sorry, and then he was gone. Abigail stood alone, the cold wind cutting through her thin jacket like knives.

There was no hiding it from Walter forever. Abigail thought she could buy herself time, perhaps long enough to figure out a plan. She wore baggy clothes and avoided eye contact, but Walter’s hawk-like gaze caught everything.

One evening at dinner, his voice cut through the clinking of silverware. “You’ve been acting strange, girl,” he said, his tone razor-sharp. “What are you hiding?”

Abigail’s fork froze mid-air. Diane’s eyes flickered toward her daughter, a rare moment of attention that made Abigail feel exposed.

“I’m not hiding anything, sir,” she lied, her voice trembling.

Walter slammed his hand on the table, making the dishes jump. “Don’t you dare lie to me!” he roared.

And that was it. The words spilled out of her like a flood she couldn’t control. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered, the room seeming to tilt with the weight of her confession.

The silence was suffocating. Diane’s hand flew to her mouth, but Walter’s face turned a shade of red Abigail had never seen before. He stood, towering over her, and for a moment, she thought he might strike her.

“You’ve brought shame to this family,” he hissed. “You stupid, ungrateful girl.”

Abigail shrank in her chair, her heart pounding like a drum. Walter turned to Diane, his voice icy. “Take her upstairs. Pack her things. She’s not staying under this roof.”

“Walter, please,” Diane whispered, but one look from him silenced her. She turned to Abigail, her eyes filled with something that might have been pity, but there was no comfort to be found.

hrown out of her childhood home with nothing but a small duffel bag, Abigail found herself sleeping on the floor of a friend’s basement. She dropped out of school to work at a diner, the only place that would hire a pregnant teenager with no experience. The customers leered at her belly, whispering behind their menus.

Every night, she lay awake on the thin mattress, wondering what her future would hold. The dreams she’d once clung to—college, freedom, love—seemed impossibly far away now. The baby inside her was a constant reminder of her mistakes, but also a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she could still find a way to make things right.

But hope has a way of slipping through fingers already bruised from holding on too tightly.

The baby, a girl Abigail named Grace, arrived on a stormy September night. Abigail cried when she held her for the first time, overwhelmed by love and fear in equal measure. But love wasn’t enough to keep them afloat. The hospital bills piled up, and the meager tips from the diner couldn’t cover formula and diapers.

Desperation pushed Abigail into the shadows. An older coworker named Lisa introduced her to a man who promised quick cash for no-questions-asked deliveries. “Just one time,” Abigail told herself, clutching the brown paper bag as she walked through the alleys of downtown Salt Lake City.

But one time became two, and then three. The money was too good, the alternatives too bleak. Abigail told herself she was doing it for Grace, that she was being a good mother.

Then came the night the police stormed the diner. Abigail was arrested in front of her coworkers, her wrists bound by cold steel. She begged them to let her call someone to take Grace, but the officers ignored her. Grace was taken into state custody, her cries echoing in Abigail’s ears as she was shoved into the back of a squad car.

Prison was a world of its own, a brutal landscape of concrete and despair. Abigail learned quickly how to keep her head down, how to avoid the predators who prowled the yard. She missed Grace with an ache that felt like a missing limb. Letters to her caseworker went unanswered. She didn’t even know where her daughter was anymore.

The walls of her cell were covered in drawings she sketched on scraps of paper—crayon hearts, stick figures with curly hair. “For Grace,” she whispered, even as the ink smudged under her tears.

Abigail was released on parole after serving three years. The world outside felt alien, moving too fast for someone who had been stuck in limbo. She found herself standing outside a social services office, clutching a folder of paperwork to petition for custody of Grace.

Inside, a tired-looking woman behind the desk told her, “Your parental rights were terminated. Grace has been adopted.”

Abigail’s knees buckled. The woman handed her a tissue, but it was cold comfort.

Abigail stumbled out of the social services office, her mind a haze of disbelief and pain. Her baby—her Grace—was gone. Adopted. The word echoed in her head like a cruel taunt. She wanted to scream, to run back inside and demand answers, but what would be the point? No amount of pleading could rewrite the signatures on the papers that had severed her from her daughter.

The streets of Salt Lake City felt colder, harsher than they had the day before. Abigail walked aimlessly, the weight of her grief pressing down on her like a physical force. She thought of Grace’s tiny hands, her coos in the middle of the night, the way her hair smelled after a bath. All of it was gone now, memories slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

She found herself at a park she used to visit as a child, sitting on a rusted swing set. The chains creaked under her weight. Across the playground, a young mother pushed her child on a swing, their laughter cutting through the quiet evening air. Abigail couldn’t look away. Her chest tightened, and tears streamed down her face.

In the months that followed, Abigail spiraled deeper into despair. Her parole officer set her up with a job at a laundromat, but the monotony of folding other people’s clothes felt like a cruel metaphor for her life—empty, repetitive, meaningless. Every paycheck disappeared into rent for a dingy studio apartment and cheap liquor to numb the ache of her failures.

She thought about Grace constantly. Did her new parents love her? Did she call someone else “Mommy” now? Did she ever wonder where Abigail was?

The weight of these questions crushed her, and the only reprieve came in fleeting moments of oblivion. Abigail turned to harder substances, chasing a high that might make her forget, if only for a little while.

One crisp autumn afternoon, Abigail wandered into the downtown farmer’s market. She wasn’t sure why—maybe she craved the illusion of normalcy, of being just another face in the crowd. She meandered through the stalls, the scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee mingling with the chatter of happy families.

And then she saw him. Caleb.

He was standing by a booth selling hand-carved wooden toys, his arm draped around a strikingly beautiful blonde woman. She wore a flowing sundress, her hair shining like gold in the sunlight. In her arms, she held a chubby-cheeked baby boy who giggled as Caleb tickled his chin.

Abigail froze, her breath catching in her throat. She ducked behind a stall, peeking out to watch them. Caleb looked every bit the picture of the all-American dream—handsome, successful, happy. The woman leaned into him, laughing at something he said, and he kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made Abigail’s stomach churn.

Her mind raced with memories: Caleb’s promises, his whispered dreams of a future they’d never have. The way he’d left her, pregnant and terrified, to fend for herself. And now here he was, living the life she’d once dared to imagine for herself.

Abigail’s hands shook as she lit the cigarette she’d bummed from a stranger outside the market. She couldn’t go back in there, couldn’t bear to see Caleb’s perfect little family one second longer.

As the sun set, she wandered the city streets, her mind a storm of bitterness and regret. Every corner seemed to hold a ghost of her past—the diner where she’d worked long shifts to buy diapers, the alley where she’d made her first delivery, the park bench where Caleb had broken her heart.

She found herself on a bridge overlooking the train tracks, the city lights glittering in the distance. The cigarette burned down to her fingertips, and she let it fall, watching as the ember extinguished against the pavement.

Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened water below, hollow and unrecognizable. For the first time, she wondered if she’d ever been anything more than what her father had said she was—a stupid, ungrateful girl.

The sound of a distant train reached her ears, growing louder with each passing second. She closed her eyes, letting the wind whip her hair around her face. She thought of Grace, of the life she’d never be able to give her, of the life Caleb had stolen from her.

Abigail didn’t jump that night. Something deep inside her—a flicker of stubbornness, maybe—kept her feet planted on the bridge. But the woman who walked away was a shell of who she had once been.

Her days became a blur of work, addiction, and isolation. She avoided places where families gathered, where laughter and love were on display. She couldn’t bear the reminders of all she had lost, of all she would never have.

Caleb and his perfect blonde bride would never know how deeply their happiness had cut her, how their smiles had been the final blow to a heart already broken beyond repair.

And Grace, sweet Grace, would grow up without knowing the mother who had loved her more than anything. Abigail hoped, in the rare moments of clarity she had left, that her daughter would have a better life—a life free from the shadows that had consumed her own.

Months turned into years, and Abigail’s life continued its downward spiral. She had long since lost her job at the laundromat, dismissed for showing up late too often or not at all. Substance abuse became her crutch, and she drifted between rundown apartments, couch-surfing with acquaintances who tolerated her presence only as long as she could contribute to the rent—or provide a distraction for their own miseries.

It was during one of these hazy, fragmented months that Abigail realized she was pregnant again. The realization didn’t come with joy or even surprise; it landed like a dull thud in her chest, a bitter confirmation of the mess her life had become.

This time, there was no Caleb, no fantasy of a shared life or family. The father was someone whose face she could barely recall, a man from a party where the music had drowned out her better judgment. There had been no romance, no promises, just the suffocating weight of regret when she woke up alone the next morning.

Abigail’s decision to terminate the pregnancy was pragmatic and immediate. She could barely feed herself; the idea of bringing another child into her chaos felt cruel. But the process of arranging the abortion was far from simple. In a state with strict regulations and limited access to clinics, every step felt like a public declaration of her failure.

She walked into the clinic on the appointed day, past protesters who shouted obscenities and waved signs with graphic images. One woman screamed, “You’re a murderer!” at her, and Abigail flinched as though struck.

Inside, the clinic staff were kind but detached, their smiles professional rather than warm. Abigail signed the papers, lay down on the cold examination table, and closed her eyes. When it was over, she felt an overwhelming emptiness that even her worst nights had never prepared her for.

News of the abortion spread quickly through the small network of people who still cared to talk about Abigail. It wasn’t long before it reached her father.

He showed up uninvited at the shelter where she was staying, his face a mask of disgust. Abigail had barely opened the door before he started in on her.

“You’re a disgrace,” he spat, his voice cold and sharp. “Killing a child? My God, Abigail, what have you become?”

Abigail shrank back, her shoulders curling inward as though trying to protect herself from his words. “I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered.

“There’s always a choice,” he snapped. “But you’ve never made the right one, have you? Just like I always said—you’re selfish. Weak.”

His words stabbed at old wounds, reopening them with precision. For a fleeting moment, Abigail wanted to scream back at him, to tell him he was the one who had broken her, that his constant belittling had been the foundation of every bad choice she’d made. But the fight had long since drained out of her.

“Get out,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Gladly,” he replied, turning on his heel. “You’re not my daughter anymore.”

Weeks later, Abigail saw Caleb again. She was standing in line at a gas station, her dirty hoodie pulled tight around her face in an attempt to avoid recognition. She hadn’t seen him since that day at the farmer’s market, but she’d thought of him often, wondering if he ever thought of her—or Grace.

He was at the register, paying for a coffee and a pack of gum. His wife wasn’t with him this time, but he still looked like the perfect picture of success: clean-shaven, confident, utterly unbothered by the burdens that weighed Abigail down.

Caleb turned and saw her. For a moment, his face registered confusion, then recognition, followed by something that looked uncomfortably close to pity.

“Abigail?” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

She froze, unsure whether to answer.

“It’s ... been a long time,” he continued when she said nothing. “How are you?”

The question felt like a cruel joke. How was she? She was a walking disaster, barely clinging to the scraps of a life she no longer wanted.

“I’m fine,” she lied, her voice cracking.

Caleb hesitated, then glanced at the cashier, clearly eager to escape. “Well, take care of yourself,” he said, his words hollow and polite.

As he walked away, Abigail felt a surge of anger she hadn’t expected. She followed him out into the parking lot, her voice trembling with rage.

“Do you even care?” she shouted after him. “About me? About Grace?”

Caleb stopped but didn’t turn around. “Of course I care,” he said, his back still to her. “But caring doesn’t change anything.”

With that, he climbed into his shiny black SUV and drove away, leaving Abigail standing alone in the cold.

The encounter with Caleb was the last straw. Abigail’s already fragile sense of self-worth crumbled completely. She stopped going to her parole meetings, started stealing to support her addiction, and alienated the few people who had tried to help her.

Eventually, her choices caught up with her. A botched shoplifting attempt led to her arrest, and with her parole violations piling up, the judge showed no mercy. She was sentenced to five years in prison.

Prison was both a punishment and a relief. For the first time in years, Abigail had a roof over her head and regular meals. But the monotony of her days left her alone with her thoughts, and the memories she had tried so hard to drown out came rushing back with a vengeance.

She thought of Grace, of the baby she had loved and lost. She thought of the second pregnancy, of the child she had chosen not to have. She thought of Caleb, living his perfect life while she rotted in a cell. And she thought of her father’s words, echoing in her mind: You’re not my daughter anymore.

One day, during her allotted recreation time, she came across a news article about Caleb. He had been promoted at work, his wife was pregnant again, and their family photo accompanied the story. They looked like they belonged on a Christmas card—smiling, beautiful, whole.

Abigail stared at the photo until her vision blurred with tears. Caleb’s life had continued, unmarred by the chaos he had left behind. Meanwhile, hers was a cautionary tale, a grim realization of every cruel prophecy her father and Caleb had ever spoken over her.

For the first time, Abigail admitted to herself that there was no redemption waiting for her. The world had judged her, and she had failed every test. She was exactly what they had said she would be: broken, lost, and utterly alone.

Prison was a cage, but it was also a battleground. Abigail quickly learned that survival required submission: keeping her head down, avoiding confrontation, and enduring indignities without protest. Her life was stripped of autonomy; every meal, every movement, every interaction was dictated by others.

Among the guards, Officer Trenton stood out. He was quiet, but his silence carried menace. Abigail avoided him when she could, but his eyes lingered on her longer than they should, his presence always closer than she wanted. At first, she told herself it was paranoia.

Until one night when she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Abigail was returning to her cell after her work detail in the prison laundry room. The halls were nearly empty, the echoes of her footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. That’s when she felt him behind her.

“Hold up,” Officer Trenton said, his voice low and authoritative.

Abigail froze. Her instincts screamed to keep walking, but defying a guard was unthinkable. She turned slowly, her heart pounding in her chest.

“You’ve been slacking on your duties,” he said, stepping closer. His eyes glinted with something that made her stomach churn.

“I—I haven’t,” she stammered, backing up against the wall.

“You calling me a liar?” he snapped, grabbing her wrist with a grip that made her wince. Before she could respond, he forced her into an unused supply closet, slamming the door shut behind them.

What happened next was a blur of pain, humiliation, and helplessness. Abigail fought at first, but Trenton’s strength and position of power rendered her resistance futile. When it was over, he adjusted his uniform as if nothing had happened, smirking at her trembling form.

“Say a word,” he warned, “and you’ll regret it.”

Abigail didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

Weeks turned into months, and Abigail’s body betrayed her once again. She recognized the symptoms immediately: the nausea, the fatigue, the tightening of her clothes. She was pregnant.

The prison medical staff confirmed it with clinical detachment, their expressions void of sympathy. Abigail didn’t bother asking about her options. She already knew the answer.

Abortion was strictly prohibited within the facility, and seeking permission for an external procedure required an approval process so convoluted it might as well not exist. Even if it were possible, Abigail doubted anyone would advocate for her. She was a convict, a failure, a woman who had forfeited her right to choose long ago.

Word of Abigail’s pregnancy spread quickly through the prison. The other inmates sneered at her, whispering accusations about her promiscuity and speculating about which guard had fathered the child. The guards were no kinder; they mocked her during inspections, their laughter cutting deeper than their words.

Her father visited her only once during this time. He sat across from her in the sterile visitation room, his expression one of utter contempt.

“You’ve disgraced this family for the last time,” he said. “I don’t care how it happened. You let it happen. That’s all that matters.”

Abigail wanted to scream at him, to tell him what Trenton had done, but the words caught in her throat. Would he even believe her? Or would he twist her story into further proof of her moral failings?

When Caleb heard about her pregnancy through mutual acquaintances, he sent a terse message through his lawyer: he wanted no contact. Abigail didn’t blame him. Why would he? She was a ghost of the girl he had once known, a reminder of everything he had left behind.

As the pregnancy progressed, Abigail retreated further into herself. She avoided conversations, eye contact, even her reflection in the grimy prison mirrors. The child growing inside her felt more like a punishment than a life, a constant reminder of her powerlessness.

When the time came, the birth was as clinical and cold as the rest of her life. She was transported to a hospital under heavy guard, shackled to the bed even as she screamed through contractions. The nurses barely spoke to her, their expressions a mix of pity and disdain.

The baby—a girl—was whisked away almost immediately. Abigail caught only a glimpse of her tiny face, red and wrinkled, before she was gone. She wasn’t allowed to hold her, wasn’t even told where the child would go.

“She’ll be placed with a family,” one nurse said curtly, as though that was supposed to comfort her.

Abigail lay in the hospital bed, her body broken and her soul hollow. She thought of Grace, of the baby she had lost all those years ago, and wondered if this child would grow up to hate her as much as everyone else did.

Back in prison, life resumed its bleak monotony. But Abigail’s mind was a storm of what-ifs and regrets. One day, during yard time, she saw Officer Trenton standing near the fence, talking casually with another guard. Rage bubbled up inside her, so fierce it made her dizzy.

Without thinking, she approached him.

“You ruined me,” she said, her voice shaking with fury.

Trenton turned, his smirk as infuriating as ever. “Watch your tone, inmate,” he said coolly.

“You’re a monster,” she hissed. “And one day, everyone will know.”

Trenton laughed, a low, mocking sound. “No one cares, Abigail. You’re nothing. Always have been.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, but they also ignited something inside her—a flicker of defiance. She didn’t know how, but she vowed that one day, she would make sure his cruelty was exposed.

As the years dragged on, Abigail’s life remained a series of small defeats and fleeting moments of hope. She never saw her daughter again. Letters sent to the adoption agency went unanswered, and the silence became another weight she carried.

Occasionally, she dreamed of Grace, of the life they might have had if things had been different. But those dreams always ended with Caleb’s face, smiling beside his beautiful wife in a perfect family portrait.

Abigail’s life had become the epitome of every cruel judgment ever hurled at her. She was exactly what they had always said she would be: a failure, a disgrace, a cautionary tale.

Grace had always been curious about her biological parents. Adopted as an infant, she was raised in a stable home with loving parents who provided everything she needed. But no matter how perfect her childhood seemed, a void lingered—a question mark in the shape of the woman who gave her life.

By her early 20s, Grace was a bright college student with aspirations to become a social worker, inspired by her own adoption story. She volunteered at community centers, attended networking events, and often met people far outside her usual circles.

It was at one such event, a fundraiser for incarcerated women transitioning back into society, that Grace met Officer Mark Trenton. She found him charming in a rugged, authoritative way. He was older, yes, but he carried himself with confidence, and Grace found his stories about prison life captivating.

Mark, for his part, noticed her immediately. She was young, beautiful, and had a spark that was both refreshing and naive. He pursued her with calculated interest, playing the role of a kind, world-weary mentor. Grace, unaware of his predatory tendencies, found herself drawn to his attention.

Their relationship progressed quickly. Grace appreciated Mark’s maturity and the way he seemed to truly listen to her. She opened up about her life, her adoption, and her vague plans to one day search for her biological mother.

Mark listened intently, a nagging sense of familiarity creeping into his mind as she shared more details. He didn’t think much of it at first—how many stories of troubled young women had he heard in his career? But one day, she casually mentioned her birth mother’s name: Abigail.

It hit him like a lightning bolt. Abigail, the inmate he had tormented, the woman he had violated. The mother of his child.

At first, he thought it was impossible. But the details aligned too perfectly. Grace was her daughter.

A sinister grin spread across his face. He had stumbled into a dark opportunity he couldn’t resist exploiting.

The next time Officer Trenton worked a shift at the prison, he sought out Abigail with renewed fervor. He found her in the yard, her face gaunt from years of hardship but her eyes still carrying a glimmer of defiance.

“Guess who I’ve been spending time with lately?” he asked, leaning in close.

Abigail ignored him, staring straight ahead.

“Grace,” he said, savoring the way her shoulders tensed at the name.

Abigail turned to him, her expression a mix of confusion and dread.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

“I met her at some fundraiser,” he said with mock nonchalance. “Smart girl. Gorgeous. Got her mother’s eyes.” He smirked. “She doesn’t know, of course. How could she? But we’ve been getting pretty close. She’s even talked about introducing me to her adoptive parents.”

Abigail felt the ground tilt beneath her. Her stomach churned, and her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed.

“You’re lying,” she spat.

Trenton chuckled darkly. “Why would I lie? I’ve already had the pleasure of ruining your life. Now I get to ruin hers, too.”

Abigail lunged at him, her rage overpowering her reason. The guards were on her in seconds, pulling her away as Trenton stood there, smug and unbothered.

“Careful, Abigail,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to lose your yard privileges.”

Meanwhile, Grace began to notice cracks in Mark’s charming facade. He was possessive, quick to anger, and evasive about his past. When she asked him about his work, his answers grew curt, as if he was hiding something.

One evening, she brought up her mother again, mentioning her plans to request her adoption records. Mark’s reaction was immediate and intense.

“Why dig up the past?” he snapped. “You’ve got a good life. Leave it alone.”

Grace was taken aback. “I just want to know where I came from,” she said softly.

Mark’s expression softened, but his words remained firm. “Some things are better left buried.”

The conversation left Grace uneasy, but she brushed it off, attributing his reaction to his stressful job.

Mark couldn’t resist twisting the knife further. During one of his shifts, he brought photographs of himself and Grace to the prison. He cornered Abigail in the hall, showing her pictures of her daughter smiling beside him.