To My 13-Year-Old Daughter Who Is Pregnant

I’m sorry, little Firefly. 

I should have worried more than I did. I should have seen it. Your reality has been – for a while now – undeniable, and I covered my eyes. I denied it. 

I’m sorry.  

But I did ask you. Remember? More than once I tried. And I was kind. I cried. Do you remember that? I whispered low, as earnestly as I could. I said I only cared about you. I promised no judgment, only love. That was genuine. 

You swore to me that it wasn’t true. It wasn’t possible, you said. So I believed you and ignored all my instincts. 

You sold Mom on the same sham. (It’s okay. I know you were scared.) She asked many times; you denied many times; and finally, she couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. 

Your folks were embarrassingly slow to catch up with real life. 

I’m sorry. 

I thought we were sharper than this. We’ve spoken at fundraisers and workshops. They’ve put our pictures on billboards. The news people have interviewed us on the news. We’re, like, expert parents who know all the situations. 

I underestimated your rug-pulling ability. Good girl. Keep that. 

You’ve known for a while, right? But I think you hoped that as long as nobody said it was true, it wouldn’t be. I can’t blame you. Thirteen. 

Thirteen.

Thirteen!

Unbelievable.

You’re still in middle school. You just barely finished seventh grade! 

THIRTEEN!!

Oh, my sweet girl. 

The little bulge in your middle was too much to ignore when we went swimming on the Fourth. That’s when things really changed for Mom and me. Could you tell? 

I’d tried to make myself wonder whether you were just getting kind of pudgy. You were hitting mid-puberty, I thought. Lots of kids get a little chunky then. Plus, you’d been pretty lazy so far this summer, and you hadn’t been eating as healthy as normal. 

It made sense! Come on. 

But that wasn’t lazy pudge. 

Mom caught my attention and pointed to your bump while everyone was grabbing food by the pool. 

“Is Cathleen pregnant?” she mouthed at me.

I shrugged and shook my head to say “I don’t know,” but … oh … in that moment I’m pretty sure my cramping gut and thumping chest knew. 

I knew. 

Late that same night, Mom and I decided that we had to get an answer that you couldn’t deny. We were certain that you would never agree to a home test. We figured our only shot was to get you to your pediatrician and try to check without you realizing what was going on. We thought Dr. Gibbons would handle things with just enough doctorly authority to keep you in the room – and hold a lid on your emotions. 

I know how bad this sounds, tricking you into the clinic, but you know how stubborn you are and how frightened you’ve been of facing this. You would have let this go and go, and that would have meant putting off healthcare for you and the baby until much later. That’s a risk we couldn’t take.

I’m glad you didn’t suspect. I’m sorry that we had to mislead you to get you into the medical center. 

Mom had explained the situation to Dr. Gibbons ahead of time. We sort of assumed she’d apply at least a little cushion of diplomacy. We didn’t expect her first words in the exam room to be “Do you know why you’re here?” Sheesh. 

That nailed the panic button, didn’t it? 

Mom could see your furious terror about to burst all over the floor. I know you wanted to bolt. Thank you for staying. That took courage. 

What was that moment like for you when Dr. Gibbons came back with your test? You had to have known what was coming, right? Did it still blow you away? 

What went through you first?

Was it dread? Was it grief? Was it guilt? 

Was it maybe relief? Knowing for sure?

When Mom came over and told me, in that instant, I was filled with … quiet. Stillness. Not nothingness, but not much more. 

Resolve is too noble and purposeful a word for my reaction. That’s not really what I felt. I guess it was just a floating, powerless, “this is the answer; now sit with it.” Does that make sense?

But it wasn’t sadness. I want you to know that. It wasn’t disappointment, Honey. I’m being honest. 

When you came out of the exam room with Mom, you looked so devastated. Thank you for not turning away when I hugged you. The only thing in my heart right then was a wish that I could absorb all of the anguish I saw in your face. 

Mom was sad. You noticed that. It’s how the news hit her. She’s still sad tonight. Don’t worry about Mom, though. She and I have talked about this a lot. 

She’s sad that you’re facing such a tough road ahead. She’s sad that you have to make a choice so unimaginable for a young woman your age. She’s sad because something that was impossible for the two of us has again come appallingly easily to people incapable of managing it or wanting it. It’s reminding her of emotions she hasn’t experienced since we were given you almost fourteen years ago. 

Mom is going to be sad for a while. Sadness is part of her trying to make sense of all of this. It’s like she’s laying out the pieces of a map, and she doesn’t know where she’s supposed to be going. Nothing feels right or real. 

It’s not completely real to me, either. You’re still a child. I mean – I looked it up. Literally, by law, you are a child. You’re not even old enough to be a minor yet. 

Besides that, Sweetheart, you’re my daughter. You were my firstborn. Last week I was rocking you to sleep and aching with contentment as I placed you into your crib, making myself weep as I sang my first lullaby to the new baby I’d prayed so many years for.

But you’ve wanted to be a grown-up lady since you could walk. Your first favorite shoes were those crappy plastic high heels that came with your Princess Elsa dress. If they’d made black ones that matched your charming preoccupation with evil vampires, you would have worn them even in the bathtub. 

You’ve always had an unusual fascination with adults. Right? We’ve discussed this before. When we have family dinners, you sneak into the grown-up conversations rather than hanging out with your cousins – every time. And from a really young age, you’ve been uncannily good at clueing into the nuanced mannerisms of people way older than you. 

Maybe this is a key that has unlocked too many doors. 

I can’t claim to have not overheard you talking inappropriately about sex for at least a couple of years. I wish I could. 

Oh, boy. 

I’ve told you about a few of the things I’ve heard you brag to your friends. But some of what I’ve caught coming from your little mouth has turned my stomach too much to even confess to myself. As your dad, Honey, that’s been awful. 

I’ve tried to approach you about it, but it’s always set you off, and you’ve either fought with me or tried to run. We’ve never actually talked. Never. Maybe if we’d been able to be open about some of this earlier, we wouldn’t be where we are today. 

I told you that I didn’t feel sadness or disappointment. I still don’t. Not disappointment with you. But I do share some of your heavy feelings, I think. 

Do you know that this pregnancy makes me feel like a failure? Can you imagine that? Do you know that I feel ashamed of myself? That I’m scared about how I’ll handle this? 

Do you know that I cry sometimes in the middle of the night, while everyone else is asleep? 

Do you want to know why? 

It’s because I love you. I don’t want you to hurt, and I know you are hurting. I know that things are only going to get harder, and the hurt is going to hurt worse, and I don’t know how I’m going to help you through it. 

It’s because right now you are bearing all of the weight of choices that I suspect were not as much your own choice as you think they were. And whether you made all the choices or not, this consequence is really huge and completely lopsided. That isn’t fair. I want to make things fair, but I can’t. 

It’s because I should have protected you from this. I’m your father. I should have done more to steer you away from everything that led you into this place. That was my job, and I didn’t do it right. 

I’m sorry. 

I’m really, really sorry, Honey. I will be sorry about that for a long time. 

But it’s also because I know you are strong. I know this is going to change your life and give you the push to become the woman you are capable of becoming. Deep down, I believe this can be an absolute miracle for you, and though I’m afraid, I’m also excited. 

Is it okay for me to say that to you right now? You can tell me no, and I will keep that part to myself – till you say it’s okay. 

Do you want to know what I don’t stay awake worrying about? 

I don’t worry whether people will think bad things about you or me or our family. All of those who really matter to us are going to respond with only love and support. I have faith in them. If they don’t hold up their end, we will let them keep their feelings; we’ll back away for a while; and we’ll hope for more understanding down the road. 

I don’t worry about you growing up anymore, but I do want you to finish your time at school like a normal kid. I don’t want this to affect you so much that you can’t return to that life. I want you to move slowly into adulthood. That sounds crazy, considering what you’re facing, but I already sense your foot easing off the accelerator. Maybe? I think this might be helping you recognize the value of your youth. Cherish it. 

I don’t worry about this changing everything between us, because I won’t let this take all of your innocence away. We will come out of this stronger and closer and more tender, but we will still laugh and goof around and bug each other. That last part will be easy.

You’ll still get annoyed when I give you truly amazing cooking tips while you’re following some random YouTube recipe that leaves half of the steps out. I’ll still get irritated when you don’t wear long pants in the middle of winter. I’ll still ask you to come to church with the rest of us and compliment you when you wear one of the few modest dresses that you own. You’ll still insist on an absurdly micromanaged 45-minute relaxation massage when I tuck you into bed at night. (And I will relish tucking you in for as long as you still let me do it.)

I’ll still be your dad. You’ll still be my sweet girl.

Firefly, let this be a time to think more seriously about who you are. Make yourself care about deeper things now. Ponder more important questions. Seek more real answers. This world is full of shocking beauty and staggering truth, but appreciating worldly pleasure shouldn’t be good enough anymore. Let it be a starting point. 

I know that you don’t think your faith is very real. You’ve said that you don’t want to believe what I believe just because I believe it. I don’t want that either. That wouldn’t be faith. 

Ask your Maker to tell you, in ways that only he can, whether he is really there and whether you really matter to him. And wait for his responses. Be quiet. Be patient and calm. When his peace fills you, you will know it. 

Have hope. Figure out what joy is. Understand why it’s different than entertainment. Learn to be happy in each moment, even the painful ones. That’s not a contradiction, by the way – or a denial. You will discover that you can be happy and sad at the same time. Embrace it all.

I will be here with you, Honey. Mom will be here, too. We will make it through this, and you will be incredible. This will be a miracle. 

I love you. 

Always.

– Dad 

That was a joke, by the way, about Mom and me being expert parents who know all the situations. You knew that. 

And I just explained it. Now it’s not funny. 

Sorry.