One Year, Three Children: My Fight to Survive as a Single Mom in America

“You’re a disgrace to this family, Emily. Three kids in a year? Do you even hear yourself?”

My mother’s words still echo in my head, sharp as the Michigan winter wind that rattled the windows of our rented duplex. I was standing in my tiny kitchen, cradling newborn Ava against my chest, while my two sons—Ben, just nine months old, and Max, barely a year—crawled at my feet, their innocent giggles cutting through the tension. My hands trembled as I tried to hold the phone, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d ever feel warmth again.

I wanted to scream back at her, tell her how scared I was, how badly I needed a hand, but the words got stuck in my throat. Instead, I just listened as she rattled off her disappointment, until she finally hung up with a curt, “Figure it out.”

I slid to the floor and pressed my forehead to my knees. How did I get here? Twenty-eight years old, three children under the age of two, and not a single soul to call when the nights got too long or the bills stacked too high. My ex, Mark, was long gone—he left when I was pregnant with Max, only sending the occasional text about child support he never paid.

I spent that night bouncing Ava in my arms, listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, feeling the weight of my choices. I remembered the dreams I used to have—college, a teaching job, maybe traveling somewhere sunny. Now, my world was diapers, formula, and a constant ache of loneliness.

The next morning, as the sunrise painted the sky pink and orange, I made a promise to my kids. “We’re going to make it,” I whispered, even as my voice cracked. “Mommy’s going to find a way.”

But the world outside wasn’t interested in my promises. At the grocery store, the cashier eyed my WIC card and three babies and offered a tight, polite smile. At the pediatrician’s office, another mother in line asked, “Are they all yours? In diapers at the same time? Wow, you must really like being busy.”

I wanted to disappear. I wanted to scream. Instead, I swallowed my shame and focused on the tiny, perfect faces looking up at me, counting on me.

My family’s rejection hurt the most. I’d always been the responsible one, the quiet overachiever. But after Mark left, after the shock of those back-to-back pregnancies, every call home ended in judgment. “You need to give some of them up for adoption,” my sister told me bluntly. “You can’t raise three babies alone.”

But how do you choose? Which child do you send away? I clung to them tighter, even as my bank account dwindled and my body ached from lack of sleep.

I tried everything to hold us together. I cleaned houses while Ben and Max sat in their playpen and Ava slept strapped to my back. I started selling handmade baby blankets on Etsy, stitching late into the night while the kids slept. Some days, the exhaustion made me dizzy. But every giggle, every hand reaching for mine, reminded me why I couldn’t give up.

I found small mercies in unexpected places. Mrs. Carter, my elderly neighbor, started leaving casseroles on my porch. “You remind me of myself, back when I had five under five,” she told me one day, pressing a warm hand to my shoulder. Her kindness made me cry with relief.

Still, for every kindness, there was a sting. The school board sent me a letter warning about “truancy concerns” because I missed a parent meeting—never mind that I had no one to watch the babies. The landlord threatened eviction when I fell behind on rent. I stayed up every night, calculating how I could stretch my SNAP benefits, wondering if I should sell the last thing my grandmother left me—a gold locket with her initials.

One chilly November night, as snow drifted against the storm door, Ben spiked a fever. His breathing grew ragged, and panic clawed at my chest. I bundled all three kids and drove the icy roads to the ER, praying the car wouldn’t break down. The doctor gave Ben antibiotics and a sympathetic look. “Do you have family who can help?” he asked gently.

I shook my head, fighting back tears. “It’s just me.”

That night, as I rocked Ben until the medicine took effect, I realized something had shifted. I was terrified, yes, but I was also fiercely proud. Every day, I did the impossible. Every day, I showed up, even when no one else would. My kids didn’t see a failure—they saw their whole world.

When Christmas came, the kids’ gifts were simple: thrift store toys, handmade dolls, a secondhand stroller. But the joy on their faces lit up our little living room. For the first time, I let myself feel hope. Maybe love and grit could be enough, after all.

I started reaching out online, joining parenting forums and local groups for single moms. There, I found women who understood—who didn’t judge, but offered advice or just a place to vent. We traded babysitting, swapped clothes and formula, and reminded each other we weren’t alone.

I still have hard days. There are moments when the loneliness feels like a second skin, when my mother’s words replay in the dark. But I look at my children, and I know: I am more than my mistakes. I am more than their judgment. We are a family, not despite the chaos, but because of it.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder: How many other women are out there, just barely holding on, praying for one more day of strength? If you’re reading this—have you ever felt like the world was rooting for you to fail, and you found a way to rise anyway?