You’re not in trouble. And darling heart, you’re not alone.
If I could say anything to the fourteen-year-old girl who gave away her baby to a random family on Sunday night – that’d be it.
Not sure what I’m talking about? Let me take two steps back.
On Sunday night a four-day-old baby boy, wrapped in a pink sheet and tucked into a bassinette with a bottle by his side was left on the doorstep of a stranger’s suburban home in Griffith.
Can you imagine? You’re up late watching TV on a Sunday night when the doorbell rings at 11.30pm. You think, “What on earth?” You open the door and no one is there. Well until you look down and see a beautiful, healthy, plump baby crying on your doorstep. A baby with a note attached to him.
It’s the opening scene of a thousand fairytales.
“Please take care of my baby. He is beautiful,” says the note. “I cannot look after him because I am only fourteen years old. My parents will kill me.”
I am only fourteen-years-old. My parents will kill me.
Do you remember being that scared? Do you remember fourteen?
I do. My fourteen was full of A-ha and spiral perms and unrequited love and washing bird poo off my mum’s car using STEEL WOOL. At fourteen, you’re childlike but not a child. And you’re trying to navigate that rickety bridge towards adulthood. You’re worrying about pimples and bad hair and lost homework. You love fiercely with your whole heart and grieve with the hurts of a thousand years. There is an intensity to fourteen. You are wise and also naïve. Brave and also vulnerable. And you’re still terrified – TERRIFIED – of your parents.