As I walked into the kitchen, my heart sank at the sight before me. There stood my daughter, Rose, with her boyfriend, and in her hand, a syringe. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – the shock and disappointment were overwhelming.

I asked Rose what she was doing, my voice barely above a whisper. She quickly tried to hide the syringe behind her back, panic filling her eyes. “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 there, and I couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that this wasn’t the first time she had used drugs during her pregnancy.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to process what I had just witnessed. How could my daughter, whom I had raised with so much 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. It pained me, but 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. I couldn’t condone her actions, and I couldn’t stand by while she put her child’s life at risk.

Watching them pack their belongings and leave filled me with profound sadness and guilt. Did I fail as a mother? Should I have done more to prevent this? These questions haunted me as I watched my daughter walk away, knowing that tough love was the only option left.