If you were to look up the word “cliché” in the dictionary, my life would be the best description. That’s right; I am a walking, talking, teenage drama: A complete mess: A beautiful disaster, if you will.

Yeah, I’m not afraid to admit that I love myself, sometimes a bit too much. I did, anyway. But just like every other human being worldwide, I made a mistake: A huge one. A mistake that not only lost me my status as “Queen Bee,” but that landed me with a tiny heartbeat inside: A heartbeat that wasn’t my own. It had me eating for two, taking constant trips to the doctor, and even more trips to the bathroom to spill my guts as I awoke each morning. It was the causing of the small thuds I often felt in my belly, the reason I stopped partying so hard. Because of this mistake, I was stuck with a baby.

My mother was furious when she found out and refused to listen to a word I said. Instead, she decided to tell me what a slut I was, how I was a disgrace to the family. She told me that I could stay at home, but only if I gave up the baby. Her reasoning? The child wouldn’t turn out right being raised by only me, no father around. And how could I argue? My father packed his bags the minute he found out mom was pregnant, and look how I turned out: An accident waiting to happen – I guess it just did. The minute my mother said it, I knew; no matter how unwanted this baby was, I didn’t want it to turn out like me. I wouldn’t agree on an abortion, it was never an option, and that’s what has landed me where I am now: Standing outside of a girls’ home, a tiny warm bundle in my arms.

I run my shaking hand down the side of her round face. In the three days that I’ve had her, I’ve fallen head over heels for the slick reddish-brown hair on her head: Those wide, doe-like, forest green eyes: Her small, perfect, pink lips. Even the way she opens her mouth, frantically searching for a nipple whenever something brushes her cheek: Her rooting reflex. That much I remember from Psychology.

I hold her up and kiss her on her perfect button nose. She coughs lightly in her sleep and stretches her tiny fingers. I can’t help but smile as I hold her closer and feel the tears coming on.

“Please don’t hate me,” I whisper, wrapping her green fleece blanket around her, the one that used to be mine. It’s chilly out for the sixth of June, but that’s Houston weather for you. I set her down in front of the door and place an envelope, her name on it, on the steady rise and fall of her chest. Then I ring the doorbell. The button glows orange under my finger and I hear the chiming, faintly, through the door. I turn and disappear into the shadows just as the door opens.

A woman leans out; she doesn’t appear to be very old at all. She looks down and her gasp is audible from where I stand. She glances to her left, and then her right as she picks up my daughter. I notice her pressing her lips together when her eyes dart across the envelope. She looks around once more before slipping inside, the door closing with a fate-sealing click.

I turn and walk back to my mom’s car. She is waiting there for me. I get in and buckle my seat belt before it is too late: Before my heart can convince my mind to go back. I can hear my three year old sister breathing deeply, asleep in the backseat. Her dad isn’t around either. I find myself praying that she does not end up like me. I lean my head back and sigh loudly. My eyes are drifting shut when my mother touches my leg. It is gentle: More gentle than I ever thought possible from her. I look at her. Maybe she has changed her mind.

“You’re doing the right thing,” She whispers; we both know it is a lie. I turn away from her and stare out into the night as I wipe my eyes.

As we drive away, I wonder who will wipe her tears: Who will brush her hair and remind her to finish her vegetables. I wonder who she will grow up to be. I wonder if, someday, she will look down at her name, scrawled on that envelope, and wonder who I’ve grown up to be.