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MidReal Story
The Unexpected Baby
Scenario:Emily is a girl who grew up in Queens of New York and she got pregant
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MOM
DAD
Emily Ejowsen
My name is Emily Ejowsen.
I grew up in Queens, New York.
I'm 16 years old and I'm pregnant.
I have a boyfriend named Jake Anderson.
He's 17 years old and he's really hot.
He has dark Blond hair, dark Brown eyes, and flawless porecelain skin.
He's a little tall for his age, but he's still shorter than me.
I'm 5'9" and he's 5'6".
He is really skinny and pale, but he's not fat.
He has a six pack and he loves to show it off to the girls at school.
He is a player, but he told me that he would never break my heart.
He is kind of a jerk, but I still love him.
I have a Mom and Dad.
They are both middle aged and they are really hot.
My Mom has Dark Brown hair, Dark Blue eyes, and flawless porecelain skin.
She is really skinny and pale, but she's not fat.
My Dad has Dark Brown hair, Dark Brown eyes, and flawless porecelain skin.
He is really skinny and pale, but he's not fat.
They both have addiction issues.
My Mom is addicted to cocaine and prescription pills.
My Dad is addicted to alcohol and marijuana.
I don't know if they're going to live very much longer.
If they don't stop using drugs, then they're going to die soon.
I don't want them to die because I love them so much.
I find Mom in her usual spot on the living room couch.
She's surrounded by empty pill bottles, half-smoked cigarettes, and ash.
The afternoon sun is streaming through the dirty windows and illuminating her.
I approach her slowly, my hands trembling.
She's barely conscious, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
I stand over her and shake her shoulder gently.
"Mom," I say softly, waiting for her to look up at me.
After a long moment, she finally lifts her head off the couch and stares at me with bloodshot eyes.
"Emily," she says hoarsely.
I swallow hard and force the words out: "Mom, I'm pregnant."
She stares at me for a long time before she bursts out laughing.
It's a harsh sound that fills our small apartment.
"Pregnant?" she wheezes, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Yeah, and I need your help," I reply, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.
She stops laughing abruptly, her expression shifting to something unreadable.
She struggles to sit up, her hands shaking as she reaches out for my arm.
I grab it and help her up.
The room spins around me as I try to focus on her face.
She's wearing the same stained sweatpants and t-shirt that she wore yesterday and the day before.
Her hair is a mess and there are dark circles under her eyes.
She looks old and frail, and for a moment I wonder how I'm going to get through this without her.
But then I look down at myself, wearing my school uniform and backpack, my hands protectively crossed over my stomach, and I realize that I have no other choice.
I'm on my own.
I stumble over to the coffee table and grab my phone, trying not to fall over as the room spins around me.
I've smoked a lot of weed tonight, but it's wearing off now and the reality of the situation is starting to sink in. My daughter is pregnant and needs my help.
I dial the number for the women's clinic that I remember from my teenage years when I was in the same situation.
I wait on hold, listening to terrible elevator music while my daughter watches me from the couch.
Her eyes are wide with fear and uncertainty as she stares at me.
I try to focus on the phone call, but it's hard to concentrate through the withdrawal symptoms.
My hands are shaking and my ears are ringing.
I'm sweating and my heart is pounding in my chest.
I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I force myself to stay on the line until someone answers.
Finally, a nurse picks up and I explain the situation to her.
She asks me a few questions and then tells me to come in tomorrow morning.
I hang up the phone and turn to my daughter.
"We have an appointment tomorrow morning," I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nods slowly, her eyes still wide with fear.
"I'm scared," she says softly.
"I know," I reply, trying to reassure her.
"But we're going to get through this together."
I look at her for a long moment, trying to memorize every detail of her face.
She's beautiful, with dark hair and brown eyes that remind me of her father.
She's tall and slender, with long legs and a small waist.
She looks so much like me at her age that it's almost like looking at myself in a mirror. "Let's go," I say finally, grabbing my purse off the couch and standing up slowly.
Emily stands up too, grabbing her backpack from the floor.
We walk out of our apartment and down the stairs, into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.
The air is cool and crisp as we walk down the street, heading towards the subway station.
The sounds of traffic and pedestrians fill the air as we move through the crowded streets of Queens.
We ride the subway for a few stops before getting off at Times Square.
The station is busy and noisy, with people rushing past us on their way to work or home.
We make our way through the crowd, heading towards the women's clinic that's located just a few blocks away from Times Square.
It's a small building tucked away between towering skyscrapers, but it's easy to find because of its bright pink color and neon sign that reads "Women's Health Clinic."
We walk inside and are greeted by a receptionist who asks us for our names and appointments.
I give her my name and Emily's name, explaining that we're here for a pregnancy test and consultation with a doctor. She nods politely and asks us to take a seat in the waiting room while they call us back when they're ready for us.
We sit down in the waiting room, surrounded by other women who are here for various reasons.
I look around the room, taking in the sterile atmosphere and the faint smell of disinfectant.
The walls are painted a pale pink color and there are posters on the wall about different health topics.
There's a small table with pamphlets and brochures about pregnancy, birth control, and STIs.
I grab one of the pamphlets about pregnancy and flip through it, reading about the different stages of fetal development.
After a few minutes, a nurse calls Emily's name and we stand up and follow her back to the exam room.
She asks Emily to undress and then takes her blood pressure and temperature.
She asks Emily a few questions about her symptoms and how far along she thinks she is.
Then she gives Emily an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy.
We watch as the doctor moves the wand around Emily's belly, looking at the screen for signs of life.
Finally, she smiles and says, "You're having a baby."
Emily looks at me with tears in her eyes as we both process this news.
We leave the clinic a little while later, holding hands as we walk through the crowded streets of New York City. I'm sitting in a hospital room, holding my daughter's hand as she labors through another contraction.
The machines beep steadily around us, monitoring her progress.
The nurse checks her cervix again and tells her that it's time to push.
Emily looks at me with wide eyes filled with fear and uncertainty.
I squeeze her hand gently and nod my head reassuringly.
She takes a deep breath and begins to bear down, pushing with all her might.
Tears stream down her face as she cries out in pain, but she doesn't stop pushing until she feels like she can't do it anymore.
Then she collapses back onto the bed, exhausted but proud of herself for getting this far.
The doctor gives her a few minutes to rest before telling her that it's time to push again.
Emily nods bravely and grips my hand tightly as she begins to push once more. This time, it only takes a few pushes before the doctor says, "I can see the head."
Emily looks at me with excitement and anticipation as we wait for our baby to be born.
And then suddenly, there's a loud cry filling the air as the doctor lifts our baby up into the world for the first time.
I look down at Emily's stomach as they cut the cord and lift our baby into Emily's arms for the first time.
Emily gazes at the tiny, wriggling form in her arms, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Mom, she's perfect," she whispers, tears mingling with her sweat-soaked hair.
I nod, my own eyes misty as I watch my granddaughter take her first breaths.
I lean against the hospital room wall, watching my daughter hold her newborn daughter close to her chest.
Emily's ember brown hair falls forward as she whispers softly to the baby, making gentle promises and whispering words of love in her ear.
It's a moment I've seen before, a memory from years ago when I first held Emily in my arms for the first time.
My hands still tremble from the withdrawal, but I force myself to be present in this moment, to watch my daughter become a mother.
Emily looks up at me, her eyes tired but happy, and then back down at her daughter.
She strokes the baby's cheek with one finger, continuing to talk softly to her.
"Mom," Emily says, her voice barely above a whisper, "I think I finally understand why you did everything you did for me."
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of her words settle in my chest.
"Emily," I reply, my voice breaking, "I just wanted to make sure you never felt alone."