People talk about the totally overwhelming love you feel, the moment you hold your newborn in your arms. And I felt that emotion after giving birth to my son Danny in 1986. He was so tiny and precious and I knew I would do everything in my power to protect him forever. But there was another overwhelming emotion creeping in. Fear. And the stark realisation that, aged just 15, I was now a mum.
I met Danny’s dad, John*, aged 14, at a party in August 1985. I was doing well at school and had a happy home life in Ongar, Essex, with my dad Eddie who ran his own business, my mum Anita, a housewife, and my older sister Toni.
John, then 17, was working as a window fitter and he drove a car, which I found exciting. He was my first boyfriend, but my parents weren’t concerned that he was three years older than me. We waited four months before having sex, and it was my first time. After that, we’d do it whenever we had the opportunity. Even though we were young, we really were in love, but foolishly, we didn’t use contraception.
I knew how babies were made – I just, naively, didn’t think it would happen to me.
Two months after I’d lost my virginity, I confided in my cousin that I was having sex, and she told my aunt. Mum was suffering with her mental health at the time so my aunt took me to the GP, who prescribed the pill.
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