#wgitachi

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We got married because I got her pregnant and she was seventeen.

I know how that sounds, but let me explain.

I was nineteen, working at GameStop, living in my mom's basement. Chloe was a senior at the high school where my mom taught. She'd come by sometimes to help grade papers for extra credit. Smart girl, quiet, planning college on a full scholarship.

One night last October, there was a party at my friend Jake's house. Chloe showed up with some friends, which surprised me because she wasn't the party type. We ended up talking on the back porch about books and movies while everyone else got wasted inside.

One thing led to another. We were both a little drunk, both lonely, both curious. It happened once, in Jake's guest bedroom, awkward and quick like most first times are. Afterward, we barely spoke. She went back to school, I went back to my dead-end job.

Two months later, she knocked on our front door, crying. My mom answered and called me downstairs. Chloe was holding a pregnancy test, hands shaking so bad she could barely speak.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered. "My parents are going to kill me. They'll kick me out. I'll lose my scholarship, my future, everything."

Her parents were strict religious types. The kind who'd disown their daughter for getting pregnant before marriage. She had nowhere to go, no money, no options. She was seventeen and terrified.

My mom sat us both down at the kitchen table. "Chloe's parents will either force her to give the baby up or throw her out completely. Either way, she loses everything she's worked for."

That's when my mom suggested something crazy. "What if you two got married? Chloe could emancipate herself, keep the baby, finish school. You'd both have legal rights as parents."

It wasn't romantic. It was survival. Chloe needed stability and legal protection. I needed to step up and take responsibility.

We got married at the courthouse two weeks before Christmas. She wore a simple white dress that hid her barely-showing belly. I wore my high school graduation suit. Our only witnesses were my mom and Chloe's best friend Sarah.

We moved into the apartment above my mom's garage. Chloe finished senior year as a married student, which raised eyebrows but kept her in school. I got a second job at a warehouse to pay for doctor visits and baby supplies.

For months, we were just two scared kids playing house. She'd do homework at our tiny kitchen table while I worked double shifts. We slept in the same bed because we only had one, but we might as well have been strangers.

Then, at seven months pregnant, Chloe went into early labor during her AP History exam. I got the call at work and drove my beat-up Honda like a maniac to the hospital, still wearing my warehouse uniform, terrified I was going to lose both of them.

Elena was born at 3:47 AM, weighing four pounds, two ounces. Tiny and perfect and ours. When the nurse placed her in my arms, something clicked. This wasn't just responsibility anymore. This was my daughter. Our daughter.

Chloe was exhausted but glowing, reaching for the baby with tears streaming down her face. "She's so beautiful," she whispered. And when she looked at me holding Elena, something in her expression changed completely.

The next few months were midnight feedings, diaper changes, and taking turns sleeping. But somewhere between the 2 AM bottles and the way Chloe would hum to Elena while rocking her to sleep, we stopped being strangers and started being a family.

Chloe graduated valedictorian three months after giving birth. She got into community college with a partial scholarship and started classes in the fall. I got promoted to shift supervisor and we moved into a real apartment.

Last month, Elena took her first steps, stumbling from Chloe's arms to mine across our living room. We both cried like idiots, and afterward, Chloe kissed me. Not a polite peck, but a real kiss, soft and sweet and full of something that felt like love.