As I walked into the kitchen, the sight before me froze me in place. There was my daughter, Rose, standing with her boyfriend, but what caught my eye was the unmistakable glint of a syringe in her hand. My heart sank as I realized what was happening.

“Rose, what are you doing?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, but the shock and disappointment were palpable.Rose’s eyes widened in panic as she quickly tried to hide the syringe behind her back. “Mom, it’s not what you think,” she stammered, her voice trembling with fear.But I couldn’t bring myself to believe her. The evidence was right in front of me, and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that this was far from the first time she had used drugs during her pregnancy.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to process what I had just witnessed. How could my daughter, whom I had raised with love and care, make such reckless decisions that could harm her unborn child?

In that moment, I knew I had to make a difficult decision. As much as it pained me, I couldn’t allow Rose to continue endangering her baby while living under my roof. With a heavy heart, I told her that she and her boyfriend needed to leave immediately.

Rose pleaded with me, tears streaming down her face, but I remained firm in my decision. I couldn’t condone her actions, and I couldn’t stand by while she put her child’s life at risk.

As they packed their belongings and left, I was filled with a profound sense of sadness and guilt. Had I failed as a mother? Should I have done more to prevent this situation? These questions haunted me as I watched my daughter walk away, knowing that tough love was the only option left.