They laughed when my son walked across the stage at his graduation ceremony with a newborn in his arms – one woman whispered: “Just like his mother…”

I was thirty-five years old on the evening of my son’s graduation ceremony.

The hall was brightly lit, loud, crowded with flowers, camera flashes, and proud families who thought the hardest part was finally behind them.

I sat alone in the third row.

My dress was simple. My shoes hurt. And at my feet, next to my handbag, was a diaper bag that didn’t fit at all with the image everyone else had of that moment.

For eighteen years, my life was nothing but a fight for survival.

I had Adrian when I was seventeen. His father, Caleb, didn’t disappear gradually, but overnight. One morning his wardrobe was empty, his phone switched off, and all the promises he had made had died with him.