My name’s Anna, and the first thing you should know about me is that I didn’t grow up with the kind of childhood people put in photo albums.
I grew up in an orphanage.

Seven girls to a room. Thin blankets. Loud nights. The constant feeling that you were temporary—like the world could pick you up and move you without warning. Some girls got adopted. Some aged out. But me and Lila? We stayed.

We weren’t best friends because we carefully chose each other. We were best friends because we survived each other. Because when you’re a kid with nothing, loyalty isn’t cute—it’s oxygen.We used to whisper at night about the families we’d have someday. The kind we’d seen in movies. Warm kitchens. Someone waiting for you. Someone who didn’t leave.

We aged out at eighteen and stepped into life with nothing but stubbornness and each other.

Lila got a call-center job. I waitressed at an all-night diner. We rented a studio apartment with furniture scavenged from yard sales and a bathroom so small you had to sit sideways on the toilet. It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours. It was the first place no one could kick us out of.Three years later, Lila came home from a party at 2 a.m. looking like she’d seen a ghost.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, standing in the doorway like her legs might give out. “And Jake’s not answering my calls.”

Jake—four months of sweet talk and empty promises—blocked her number the next day.

No parents to scream at him.
No family to lean on.
No safety net.I held her hand through every doctor’s appointment, every ultrasound, every panic attack that hit at 3 a.m. when the future felt like a locked door. I was in the delivery room when baby Miranda arrived—dark hair, Lila’s exact nose, tiny lungs announcing herself like she was furious at the world for daring to be this cold.

“She’s perfect,” Lila whispered, holding her like she was made of glass. “Look at her, Anna.”