But no one had time for that—there was a whole-ass baby on the way, and something had to be done.

“Abortion!” my dad’s mom—my future grandmother—insisted.
“Just look at her! She’s got lice, she hangs out in basements, and honestly, that kid probably isn’t even my son’s!” That’s not a direct quote, but it’s pretty damn close.

“She got knocked up,” my mom’s dad, my grandpa, muttered. I think that was all he ever said on the matter. Then he sat back down in his chair, turned on the TV, and forgot someone was about to give birth.

The one who probably lost her shit the most was my great-grandmother—my mom’s grandma, my grandpa’s mother. The three of them lived together, and she was the classic authoritarian matriarch pulling all the strings. You probably have one of those in your family, too.

It was too late for an abortion anyway—they only noticed the pregnancy when it was basically time to buy a crib. Not that anyone would’ve actually done the procedure on a 16-year-old back then—too risky, not enough experience. So, instead, a bunch of doctors gathered to discuss the situation and handle the pregnancy.

And really, let’s be honest—everyone knows how babies happen. Either someone wasn’t paying attention, someone was raised like a feral cat, or someone just had zero boundaries. Fun fact: my mom could’ve gotten pregnant even earlier since she started having sex at 13 or 14.

Anyway, a wedding was the obvious next step—to make this whole mess look at least slightly less tragic. Picture this: my mom, a 16-year-old bride, standing in her wedding dress, veil and all, full-on pregnant, sobbing her eyes out, red and puffy.
My dad, the groom—19 years old, in a little suit, curly hair, and a baby mustache, looking just as miserable. Apparently, he was late to the wedding, which is why my mom was crying. She later claimed she was crying because she didn’t want to marry him.

In the wedding photos, almost no one is smiling. There’s my great-grandmother, all dressed up, hair curled, still relatively young. Next to her, my grandpa—mom’s dad—face completely blank, already tipsy.

The only person actually grinning in the pictures? My dad’s mom—the same one who screamed “Abortion!” at the start. She has this special talent: first, she shits on everything, then she pretends she’s the saint who saved the day. She never outgrew it.

Beside her is her boyfriend, Vova—my so-called grandfather. That’s what I called him—just Vova. Vova was decent. He loved me. He and grandma had a very active sex life, which I learned about way too early while visiting their place. Nothing scarring, just a casually stashed collection of adult movies. Vova was a little boring, but overall, a good dude.

The rest of the people in those wedding photos? I have no idea who they are. Supposedly, my parents’ best friends. But they all disappeared—some drifted away, some died. Real uplifting wedding story, huh?

By the way, I have no clue if there was a wedding reception. You know, champagne, awkward toasts? No idea. But I’m sure there was one. It must’ve been that forgettable, since I never heard about it a million times like I did every other family story.

Like the story of my birth.

My mom went into labor while she and my dad were home together. At first, she thought she had just pissed herself—that’s how she explained it later. They both laughed because, well, they were teenagers. Then it happened again, and they realized, oh shit, this was something else. Naturally, neither of them had any clue about water breaking.

They took my mom to the hospital, where a whole medical team gathered while she got locked in some room. She always said she kept tucking one leg under herself because it made the pain more bearable. A nurse peeked through the keyhole and shouted, “You’re sitting on your baby’s head! Sit properly!” So she had to stop. But honestly? Sitting on someone’s head was always her comfort zone.

Anyway, fast-forward through all the medical details (nobody ever tells this part in my family). Some professor delivered me. Drumroll—I was born.

No one knew the gender beforehand.
They showed my mom that she had a baby girl.
Mom: “Fuck.”
Nurse: “Oh, don’t say that! She’s a beautiful, healthy little girl!”

But my mom wanted a boy. Actually, she didn’t want any kid, but if she had to have one, a boy would’ve been better.

So yeah, that was my grand entrance into the world—met with a disappointed “Fuck.”
And I’m pretty sure my first thought was “Well, fuck you too, Mom.”
But I waited a bit before saying it out loud.

Would she have been happier with a boy? She did have one. A year later.
Also with my dad (probably). This boy died when he was nine months old (probably). Like most of her stories, this one was a tangled mess of half-truths and contradictions. Supposedly, he had some medical issues.
Supposedly, a doctor dropped him.
He stayed in the hospital while my great-grandmother took care of him.
Then he died. End of story.

My mom loved telling the story of my birth. Over and over. I first heard it when I was about five. By the time I was 30, I finally told her that the way she told it traumatized me. It’s not fun knowing for sure that you were unwanted.
“Sorry, I was young and stupid,” she said, this woman who hadn’t spoken to me
in months because she was mad that she wouldn’t be the sole owner of a house
I’d be paying for over the next 30 years.

You know what, Mom? You are stupid. That part, at least, is true.