The Weight of an Unwanted Child: A Story of Expectations, Sacrifice, and Finding Myself Again

“Tyler is nothing but a burden. If Erin had thought ahead, none of this would’ve happened.”

My mother’s voice sliced through the thin kitchen wall, as sharp as the November wind rattling the old windowpanes. I froze in the hallway, my arms still wrapped around a basket of laundry, socks and onesies slipping to the floor. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. There was a static silence, then the low hum of her TV, and the sound of Tyler’s toy blocks hitting the hardwood in the living room. I felt myself shrink, suddenly smaller than I’d ever been, smaller than when I was a kid myself, wishing for a way out of this house.

It had been six weeks since I’d lost my job at the insurance call center. My maternity leave ended, but they’d replaced me, said business was slow. The job boards were full of nothing but dead ends, the city’s daycares had waitlists longer than the winters here, and every bill that landed in the mailbox seemed heavier than the last.

I stepped into the kitchen, forcing a smile. My mom looked up from her crossword, her eyes flickering with guilt for a half-second before she sighed and went back to her pen. “You want coffee?” she asked, brisk.

“I’m good, thanks,” I whispered, voice uneven. Tyler’s giggle floated in from the living room — a bright, oblivious sound. I leaned against the counter, staring at the faded wallpaper, wishing I could peel off my life like those curling corners.

Later that night, when Tyler finally fell asleep, I sat on the edge of my childhood bed, scrolling through job listings on my battered phone. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or fear. I thought of tomorrow: another round of sending resumes, more awkward interviews where I tried to hide the desperation in my voice, and, worst of all, my mom’s eyes, full of that silent accusation.

I remembered how she used to say, “Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Erin. Don’t let a kid tie you down.” I’d thought having Tyler would be different — that love would be enough, that we’d find a way. But now, every day felt like proof I’d failed him.

The next morning, Mom cornered me before I could finish my coffee. “I talked to Aunt Linda. She said Target’s hiring for holiday help. It’s not glamorous, but it’s something.”

I bristled. “I can’t work nights, Mom. Who’s going to watch Tyler?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only woman who’s ever had a kid, Erin. People figure it out.”

I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. She’d never let me forget that I’d done this alone, that Tyler’s father — a guy I’d met at a friend’s Fourth of July BBQ — had disappeared long before I saw that second pink line. I’d told myself I didn’t need him. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Days blurred together. My savings dwindled. I started to snap at Tyler when he wouldn’t nap. My patience was wearing thin, my hope even thinner. One afternoon, after another fruitless online interview, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror: hair unwashed, eyes ringed with fatigue, mouth twisted in a permanent frown. Who was I becoming?

That night, I heard my mom on the phone, her voice hushed but urgent. “She’s not coping, Linda. I’m worried about Tyler.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my skin felt raw. The truth was, I wasn’t coping. I was drowning.

The next week, I finally got a call back for a receptionist job at a dentist’s office. The pay was barely enough for rent, but it was something. There was just one problem: the only daycare with an opening wanted nearly half my paycheck. I did the math over and over, each time coming up short.

One evening, after another fight with Mom — her accusing me of being ungrateful, me accusing her of never understanding — I found myself yelling at Tyler for spilling juice on the rug. He looked up at me, his big blue eyes brimming with tears. “Sorry, Mommy. Don’t be mad.”

That broke me. I scooped him up, sobbing into his hair. “I’m so sorry, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

He patted my back, in that way toddlers do, as if he could fix everything with a sticky little hand. I realized then: he wasn’t the burden. It was the weight of everyone’s expectations, the crushing fear of not being enough, the isolation of single motherhood in a city that didn’t care if you sank or swam.

I started searching for support groups online, found a local moms’ meetup at a church basement. The first meeting, I barely spoke. But listening to other women talk about their struggles — layoffs, absent partners, judgmental families — something loosened in my chest. I wasn’t alone.

Slowly, things changed. I took the receptionist job, squeezed every penny, and asked Mom — this time, calmly — if she could help with Tyler two afternoons a week. She grumbled, but agreed. I apologized for the things I’d said. She did too, in her own awkward way.

It’s not a fairy tale. Some days are still hard. But the other night, as I watched Tyler sleep, his small fist curled around his favorite truck, I felt something shift. Maybe I hadn’t failed him. Maybe I was just doing the best I could, with what I had.

I wonder — how many other moms are out there, feeling like they’re drowning? How many of us are too scared to say we need help?