The Age of Almost: Part 3. Learning to Choose Myself | by Luna Rivers | Oct, 2025

The Age of Almost: Part 3 Subtitle: Learning to Choose Myself

This is the final part of my story. If you haven’t read Parts 1 and 2, you can find them here: The Age of Almost: Part 1 The Age of Almost: Part 1 https://medium.com/@lunariverstories/the-age-of-almost-part-1-14cec46d810d

and The Age of Almost: Part 2

The Age of Almost: Part 2 https://medium.com/@lunariverstories/the-age-of-almost-part-2-0ff904b89b6a

Content Warning: This part contains detailed descriptions of teen dating abuse escalation, pregnancy, emotional manipulation, and crisis situations. It discusses running away, family trauma, and childbirth. If you’re currently in an unsafe relationship, please prioritize your safety. Resources are available at the end of this story.

📘 Chapter Nine: Learning to Breathe Again

We went home the next day.

Anthony was bundled in soft blankets, tucked into the car seat like a tiny miracle. My parents had everything ready—a crib, a changing table, even a little mobile that played lullabies. The room was warm and quiet, painted in soft colors. It felt like a beginning.

They became his legal guardians. It was mostly for insurance reasons, but also because I was still so young. I didn’t understand all the paperwork. I just knew they were protecting us. I was so thankful for them. They didn’t just help—they showed up with love, patience, and grace.

As I healed, my mom helped me with everything. We took turns getting up at night, feeding Anthony, changing him, rocking him back to sleep. We had a little rhythm—gentle, steady, full of love. I was exhausted, but I wasn’t alone.

Ben came by occasionally. He’d bring diapers, stay for a little while, then leave. We didn’t talk on the phone as much anymore. The calls got shorter. The silences got longer.

Once I felt stronger, I started going for walks around the neighborhood. I’d lace up my sneakers, tuck Anthony into the stroller, and breathe in the morning air. The sidewalks were familiar, but everything felt different. I passed the mailbox where Tess and I used to wait for the bus. Now I walked alone, pushing past the ache in my hips, trying to feel like myself again.

One afternoon, Ben drove by and saw me while I was alone. He stopped, smiled, and picked me up. I was so happy to see him. For a moment, it felt like maybe things were okay. Maybe he missed me.

But then he started driving out to the country.

I knew what that meant. I knew what he wanted.

My heart sank. That’s all he cared about. I looked out the window, then back at him. “Can you take me home?” I said quietly. “I’m not all about that anymore.”

He got mad. Said I’d changed. Maybe I had. I needed more than just physical closeness. I needed respect. I needed love that didn’t come with conditions.

We basically broke up after that. He came to see Anthony less and less. The space between us grew wider, and I stopped trying to close it.

That summer, I started playing softball again. My friends were so supportive. They loved Anthony—passed him around like a little mascot, cooed over his tiny socks and sleepy smiles. It was still strange, me having a baby. I was the only one. But they tried to make it feel normal.

I went back to school my sophomore year. I had to switch a couple of classes because Ben was in them, making up credits so he could graduate. We couldn’t get along. It was toxic. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted peace.

My mom watched Anthony while I was at school. I’d come home to his giggles, his soft baby smell, his tiny hands reaching for me. Everything was different now. I had a baby at home. A life that depended on me.

My parents tried to let me have a teenage life—sleepovers, dances, weekends with friends. But it was never the same. I wasn’t just Krissy anymore. I was Anthony’s mom.

I thought breaking up would make me feel free. But freedom isn’t just walking away—it’s choosing what you won’t carry anymore. I didn’t know how to be a teenager and a mother at the same time. But I knew I wanted to be better than what I’d been given. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be strong. For him. For me.

📘 Chapter Ten: The Weight of Silence

I didn’t know how to talk about what I’d been through.

Not the panic. Not the pressure. Not the way I’d stopped laughing with my friends or the way I flinched when my phone buzzed. I just kept going—school, home, baby, repeat. I smiled when people asked how I was. I said I was fine.

But I wasn’t.

I started writing in a journal. At first, it was just little things—what Anthony did that day, what I ate, what I wore. I didn’t write about Ben. I didn’t write about the fear. I didn’t write about the way I felt like I was disappearing.

But eventually, the words started coming.

I feel like I’m walking through fog.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I want to be safe.

I didn’t show it to anyone. I tucked it under my mattress, like a secret I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But writing it down made it real. It made me feel less alone.

One day, my mom found the journal. She didn’t say anything. Just left a sticky note on the page:

I see you. I love you. I’m here.

I cried for an hour.

I didn’t know how to explain the way everything had changed. How I used to be the girl who stayed up late talking to Tess about boys and volleyball and sleepovers. How now I was the girl who kept bottles in the fridge and diapers in her backpack. How I didn’t know how to be both.

Tess still tried. She’d text me, call me, ask if I wanted to hang out. But I didn’t know how to say yes. I didn’t know how to show up without pretending. I didn’t know how to be the old me.

So I stayed quiet.

I thought silence kept me safe. But silence is heavy. It presses down until you forget how to breathe. I was learning that speaking—even just to a page—was the first step toward healing. And I was ready to take it

📘 Chapter Eleven: The First Goodbye

I saw him at a football game.

A boy I’d known before—someone who’d moved away and come back. I didn’t expect to feel anything. I was just there with friends, trying to feel normal again. But then I saw him across the bleachers, and he smiled like he remembered me. Like I wasn’t just the girl with a baby now.

He came over, asked how I was, and actually listened. He didn’t look at me like I was broken or complicated. He asked about Anthony, said he’d love to meet him someday. I ended up needing a ride home, and he got his mom to drive me. I was nervous, but he was so kind—gentle, respectful, easy to talk to.

When we got to my house, Anthony was asleep. I let him come in anyway, just for a minute. He tiptoed into the nursery and peeked into the crib.

“Wow,” he whispered. “He’s perfect.”

I nodded, heart full. “He’s everything.”

We started talking on the phone after that. Hanging out with friends. Laughing again. I fell fast. Not because I was desperate—but because he treated me right. He didn’t make me feel small. He didn’t ask me to hide. He just showed up.

But a few months later, everything changed.

My dad got laid off from his job. It was sudden, scary, and serious. He found a new job—over a thousand miles away. We had to move. There wasn’t a choice.

I was heartbroken.

We talked about trying long distance. We said maybe we could make it work. But deep down, we both knew it wouldn’t. We were young. We were in different worlds. We said goodbye with tears and promises, but no illusions.

Ben wasn’t happy about the move. He said it wasn’t fair. That he should’ve had a say. But my parents were Anthony’s legal guardians. There wasn’t much he could do. He hadn’t come to see Anthony in weeks anyway.

I packed slowly. Folded baby clothes. Boxed up memories. Looked around my room like it was a museum of who I used to be.

And then we left.

 —-

I thought love meant holding on. But sometimes love is letting go. I didn’t know what waited for me in the next state, the next school, the next chapter. But I knew I was ready to stop chasing people who didn’t choose me. I was ready to choose myself.

Moving away didn’t fix everything. The patterns I’d learned — people-pleasing, avoiding conflict, feeling smaller than my actual age — those followed me. It took years of small choices, failed relationships, therapy I couldn’t afford, and eventually finding real love to understand what had happened to me.

At 47, I can finally name it: what I experienced wasn’t love. It was control wearing love’s mask. The jealousy wasn’t passion — it was possession. The isolation wasn’t protection — it was manipulation. The way I felt responsible for his emotions, the way I twisted myself into smaller and smaller shapes to avoid his anger — none of that was my fault.

Looking back, I wish someone had told 14-year-old me that love isn’t supposed to hurt. That jealousy isn’t romantic. That being “chosen” by someone who isolates you from friends isn’t a fairy tale — it’s a warning.

I’m sharing this story because I believe in the power of recognition. Sometimes we need to see our experiences reflected back to us before we can fully understand what we lived through. Sometimes we need permission to call something what it was.

If you’re a teenager reading this, please trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is. If you’re a parent, please have conversations about what healthy love looks like. And if you’re an adult still carrying the weight of a teenage relationship that shaped you, please know it’s never too late to heal.

If you’re reading this and seeing yourself in Krissy’s story, please know: you deserve love that doesn’t leave bruises. You deserve someone who celebrates your friendships, not someone who destroys them. You deserve to take up space in your own life.

The pink dress was beautiful. The night was magical in moments. But magic built on control and manipulation always fades, leaving only the work of rebuilding yourself.

That work is worth it. You are worth it.

The pink dress is long gone, but the girl who wore it survived. She became a mother, learned to set boundaries, and discovered that real love feels like safety, not surveillance. It took decades, but she finally learned to choose herself.

And if you need to make that choice too, you’re not alone.

If You Need Help

National Teen Dating Abuse Helpline: 1-866-331-9474 or text LOVEIS to 22522

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673

Online Resources:

• loveisrespect.org – specifically for teens and young adults

• thehotline.org – National Domestic Violence Hotline website

• rainn.org – support for sexual abuse survivors

Text-Based Help:

• Text START to 88788 for Crisis Text Line

• Text LOVEIS to 22522 for Love Is Respect