I was only seventeen years old when I welcomed my twins into the world. At that incredibly young age, I was completely broke, utterly exhausted, and barely making it through each day. I clung to my high school education as my only lifeline, treating it as the one thing that might eventually save my family. My parents, however, did not see it that way. They believed I had ruined my future and told me I was entirely on my own. Within a matter of days, I found myself without a place to stay or any kind of support system to lean on.
By November 1998, I was juggling college classes, two newborns, and whatever low-paying work I could find. The father of my children had demanded an abortion, so he was completely out of the picture. Most nights, I worked the late shift at the university library to keep us afloat. The girls, Lily and Mae, stayed wrapped snugly against my chest in a worn sling I had picked up secondhand. I lived off instant noodles and cheap campus coffee, operating purely on adrenaline and a fierce determination to survive.
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