Chapter one: The day she first held me

Karmen’s birth—an explosion of overwhelming love in the middle of loneliness.

My mother held me for the first time under the harsh hospital lights, her hands trembling as she pulled me against her chest like she'd been waiting her whole life for that moment.

I don't remember the world the day I was born, but I remember the way my mother looked at me.
Or maybe it's better to say — I remember the way she felt.

The moment they placed me in her arms, still warm, still messy from my arrival, her whole soul cracked wide open. Her smile trembled, caught between hope and heartbreak, and tears gathered in her eyes like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to cry. If I could speak then, I would've told her those weren't sad tears at all — they were the kind that spill out when something finally goes right in your life.

She kept whispering the same words, over and over like a prayer only we could hear:

"That's my daughter. That's my daughter."

No one else in the room mattered to her. Not the nurses with their "She's gorgeous!" or "She's perfect!"
Not the quiet family and friends dropping in and out.
Not even the empty space where my father should've been.

She felt that absence like a bruise — angry, stinging — but she held onto me tighter. She told herself she wasn't alone. She told herself she had her aunt, her cousin, her friends. Maybe not the people she wanted, but the people she had. And for her, that was enough.

At night in the hospital, she held me close and made promises I wouldn't understand for years. Promises she'd spend the rest of her life trying to keep.

A better life.
Safety.
Love.
Protection.
Forever.

I didn't know it then, but those promises would become the heartbeat of our entire story.

A Couch, a Swing, and a Mother Learning How to Be One

When she finally brought me "home," it wasn't to a nursery or a picture-perfect room with pastel walls. It was to my cousin Brandy and Brian's living room — clean, organized, stable, and safe. My mother slept on the couch. I slept in my swing or in my little bassinet beside her.

Every three hours, like clockwork, I would wake her. She would feed me with heavy eyes, sometimes so tired she drifted half-asleep while the bottle rested in her hand. But even exhausted, even overwhelmed, she kept telling herself the same thing:

"I'm going to be a good mother.
And one day... a great one."

There were nights she cried quietly, afraid of the unknown and the weight she now carried alone. Afraid of being a single mother. Afraid of what life would look like when it was just the two of us in our own place, with no one else around.

But she also cried because she loved me — deeper and more fiercely than she thought she was capable of loving anyone.

The Place She Refused to Take Me

Before I was born, she lived in a trailer — broken, cluttered, unsafe. Exposed wires hanging where light fixtures used to be. Bare floors with no carpet or linoleum. Roaches in the corners. The kind of place where hope didn't grow.

She knew it wasn't for me.
She wouldn't allow my first days of life to echo the worst days of hers.

So she left. And Brandy and Brian opened their door, their home, and their hearts. For three long months she swallowed her pride, lived without privacy, and endured constant commentary about how she should parent. But she also received love, support, shelter, and the chance to breathe long enough to plan our future.

The biggest challenge: not having space of her own.
The biggest blessing: having people who cared enough to give us theirs.

A Fresh Start in Holcomb

Eventually, housing came through — a tiny apartment in Holcomb, just blocks away from the trailer where my father lived. When my mother walked inside for the first time, the silence hit her like sunlight. Empty rooms. Bare walls. No noise. No instructions. No judgment.

Just space.
Just possibility.
Just us.

She set up my nursery first — a crib full of stuffed Care Bears, soft colors, little decorations she saved every spare dollar for. She wanted me to feel safe. Loved. Wanted. Even before I could understand any of it.

The first night in that apartment, she laid beside me in her queen bed. For the first time, no one was there to tell her she couldn't. She watched me breathe. She touched my tiny hand. And she felt, for the first time in a long time, like she was exactly where she needed to be.

Home.

She feared not having enough money.
She feared losing the apartment.
She feared my father would drift away from us completely.

But louder than any fear was her love for me — the thing that held her together when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

From the beginning, it was always her and me.
Two hearts.
One start.
One promise:

She would never let me feel alone.