Before reading this you should know that I have two sets of parents due to the divorce of my mother and father. The set of parents you are going to read about is my mom and "step" dad. I have never called him my step-dad because he raised me as his daughter. He is in every way my father.
This is not to say that I don't love and respect my biological father. I do. I will tell the stories of both sets parents. This just happened first.
Telling my parents was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done. I never, and I mean NEVER, talked to my parents about anything. I never told them when I sad, mad, or happy. I never spoke to them about problems that was having and sometimes not even about achievements that I had received. I was a quiet and reserved child, the suffer in silence type. Partly because I was scared of the consequences for wrong choices and partly because I had convinced myself that the activities I participated in, both good and bad, didn't matter and that nobody cared. I invented a routine or sort of practice to convince myself of this. I said these words to myself over and over and over again until whatever emotion I was feeling dissipated. "Nobody cares. Nothing matters." Numb, is a more appropriate word.
When it came time to tell my parents I was quite literally shaking like a leaf at just the thought of speaking to them. I called them. They were both on the line when I told them. I was shocked by my mother's reaction. She was quiet and calm. It might have been because my father was not. He was furious to say in the least. Who could blame him? I fell back into my old and familiar habits and did not say a anything after the words, "I'm pregnant" stumbled out of my mouth. I was half listening to my father as those war drums in my heart started to pound again. At this point I had no time to make myself numb to the situation as my chest started to heave with each sob and cry that escaped my body. My mother took over the conversation. I don't remember what she said but she did end the conversation knowing that this wasn't going to be the last time we spoke.
I need to explain that I love my father. I loved him then. He was hurt and he is a man that feels greatly for the welfare of others and at that time he was concerned for the child I was carrying. He has been the greatest example of a Christlike man that I have ever known. I have seen him offer strangers a ride home, give his family members and strangers money, food, and shelter. He has fathered children other than his own and befriend a mentally challenged man when no one else would. I have even seen him invite a set of missionaries, not from his own church, into his home and listen to their message of Christ without judgment and with love. The concern he had for my baby was not misplaced. I was not living a lifestyle that was suitable for raising a child and he loved that baby. He said harsh words that scared and hurt me; but he is, even though Christlike, just a man. In that moment he was not just a man, he was a father who feared for his grandchild and reacted as such.
This was the first time I could remember that I actually felt fear and sadness in a very long time and cried because of it. I was heaving and sobbing so hard I couldn't talk. My boyfriend calmed me down and we made the decision to just leave my parents out of this. We felt picked on and felt like the victims. I hope this this shows our maturity level at the time. Now I needed to call another set of parents, but that is another story...
The invitation for questions is still open, feel free to ask anything.