My Mother Kicked Me Out of the Church for Getting Pregnant Out of Wedlock

I’m a sophomore in college studying psychology, and that’s where I met Glenn last fall. We started out as study buddies in our Intro to Research Methods class, but there was something special about him from day one.

He had this gentle way of explaining complex topics that made everything click, and his smile? It could light up the whole lecture hall.

“Faith, you’re starin’ again,” he’d tease me during our study sessions, and I’d feel my cheeks burn red every single time.

“Can’t help it if you’re distracting,” I’d shoot back, and we’d both laugh like we had the best secret in the world.

We went from sharing coffee after class to spending hours at the campus diner. We’d pick at endless plates of waffle fries while sharing our life stories.

Glenn told me a bit about his family and how he enjoyed playing in the fields as a kid. Meanwhile, I opened up about losing my dad when I was five. That’s when things started shifting from friendship to something more.

“Your dad would be so proud of you,” Glenn said one evening, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Following your dreams, helping people through psychology…”

The first time he kissed me on the porch swing outside my mama’s house, I swear I saw stars. But when I told Mama about Glenn, she just pressed her lips together and said, “That’s nice, sugar. Don’t forget you’ve got that big exam coming up.”

That’s my mama, Claudia, for you. Since Daddy passed, she’s thrown herself into two things: raising me and adoring nature.

Never dated, and never seemed interested in finding love again.

Sometimes I catch her looking at Daddy’s photo on the mantle with such longing that it breaks my heart. I wish she’d give herself permission to be happy again, but we don’t have the kind of relationship where I can say that.

“Mama,” I tried once, “don’t you ever get lonely?”

“I’ve got you,” she replied, smoothing down her skirt. “That’s all the company I need.”

Everything was sailing smoothly until that morning I woke up feeling too sick.

I swear I couldn’t even move, and the thought of having breakfast nearly made me puke.

Oh no… I thought. The nausea, the fatigue… Does it mean I’m pregnant?

That was the first thing that came to my mind because Glenn and I got intimate a few weeks earlier.

I was super scared, and my hands were trembling so bad I could barely open the drawer where I’d hidden the pregnancy tests.

“Please, please, please,” I whispered, watching that little window. “Please tell me I’m wrong!”

But two pink lines appeared clear as day, and my world tilted sideways.

I sank down onto my bathroom floor while my heart pounded inside my chest.

“This can’t be happening,” I muttered, staring at the test. “I’m only nineteen. I can’t have a baby. I can’t…”

A few minutes later, I found myself pacing the bedroom.

“How am I gonna hide this from Mama?” I asked myself. “She’ll never understand. A baby? Out of wedlock? In our family?”

I think I talked to myself for almost an hour while different scenarios played out in my mind. All of them resulted in my mother not speaking to me.

I was certain she’d never accept my baby.

I spent the next few days hiding in my room, coming up with every excuse I could think of to avoid facing Mama.

“Faith, honey! Dinner’s ready!” she called out one evening.

“Sorry, Mama, got this huge psychology paper due tomorrow,” I shouted back. “I’ll grab something later!”

The next morning, she knocked on my door. “Baby girl, I made your favorite pancakes.”

“Thanks, but I already ate a granola bar. Got an early study group meeting,” I lied, feeling guilty about the growing pile of excuses.

That evening, she tried again. “Faith? Mrs. Jones brought over her famous casserole…”

“Got finals coming up, Mama. Need to focus!” I called out.

By Thursday, Mama wasn’t having it anymore. She marched right up to my room and stood in the doorway.

“Now hold on just a minute,” she said, fixing me with that mom-stare that could melt steel. “Since when do you skip my pancake breakfasts? And don’t think I haven’t noticed you running to the bathroom every morning.”

“Just stressed about exams,” I mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “And I suppose stress is also why you haven’t touched your coffee in days? The same coffee you swear you can’t live without?”

“My study group suggested cutting back on caffeine.”

“My dear Faith,” Mama said slowly, “in all your years of schooling, I’ve never seen you skip meals during finals. Something’s going on with you, and we both know it ain’t just studying.”

But before she could press further, I grabbed my backpack. “Sorry, Mama, I’m late for the library. Group project!”

I practically ran down the stairs, leaving her standing there with that worried look I’d been trying so hard to avoid.

The following Sunday, Mama called up to my room, “Faith, honey! We’re gonna be late for service!”

“Coming!” I called back, fighting another wave of nausea. “Maybe I should skip today…”

“Skip church? Are you feeling poorly?” Mama appeared in my doorway.

“Just a little tired,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Been studying real hard.”

“You’ve been ‘tired’ all week,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Something you want to tell me?”

“No ma’am,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

The church was packed that morning, all our neighbors dressed in their Sunday best.

Mrs. Jones was wearing her famous pink hat, and Mr. Rodriguez had his grandkids with him. Everything was fine until halfway through the sermon when that familiar nausea hit me.

I must’ve turned green because Mama grabbed my hand.

“Baby girl, what’s wrong?” she whispered, her eyes narrowing. “Come to think of it, you’ve been actin’ strange all week…”

Maybe it was the guilt, or maybe it was just those pregnancy hormones, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Mom, I have something to tell you,” I whispered back, tears welling up. “I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed felt eternal. Mama’s face went through about fifty different emotions in three seconds flat.

“What?” she gasped, loud enough for several heads to turn. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I’m not joking,” I managed, my voice trembling. “I’m pregnant, and it’s Glenn’s.”

That’s when Mama lost it. She stood up and started yelling at me.

“Get out of the church right now!” she hissed. “Go home, pack your things, and don’t come back to my house! How could you do this? Did you even think about what our family and friends would say? Do you not know the traditions and values we hold!? Get out of my sight!”

I quickly stood up and began walking away while my tears blurred my vision. I could see how Mrs. Jones was staring at me with wide eyes.

But before I could reach the door, a familiar voice called out.

“Stop right there, young lady.”

It was Pastor James, and he was looking at my mother with the kind of stern expression I’d seen him use during particularly passionate sermons.

“Claudia,” he said gently, walking down the aisle toward us, “would you abandon your daughter when she needs you the most? Isn’t this the time to show love and forgiveness?”

“But she’s having a child out of wedlock!” Mama protested. “I never—”

“That shouldn’t be an issue, Claudia,” Pastor James interrupted softly. “Sometimes the greatest blessings come in unexpected packages. Remember, Claudia, when your husband passed away, this congregation wrapped their arms around you and Faith. Shouldn’t we do the same now?”

Those words changed Mama’s thoughts. She looked at me and then burst into tears.

The next thing I knew, we were hugging right there in the middle of the church, both of us crying while the congregation pretended not to watch.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl,” she whispered into my hair. “I was just scared for you. I know how hard it is raising a child alone…”

“I’m not alone, Mama,” I said. “I have Glenn, and I have you… if you’ll still have me?”

But the story doesn’t end here.

A few days later, Mama insisted on meeting Glenn and his family.

“Time to do this properly,” she said, straightening my collar like I was still a little girl. “No more secrets.”

Glenn drove us to his place.

“You nervous?” I asked Glenn as we pulled up to his house.

“A little,” he admitted, squeezing my hand. “But it’s time our families met.”

You won’t believe what happened next. We pulled up to this beautiful house, and who opened the door? Pastor James.

The look on his face when Glenn called him “Dad” was priceless.

“Faith?” Pastor James said, looking between me and his son. “Glenn, son, is this your young lady?”

“Yes sir,” Glenn said, taking my hand. “Surprised?”

“Well, I’ll be…” Pastor James shook his head, then started laughing. “The Lord sure does work in mysterious ways.”

Looking back now, I can’t help but laugh at how everything unfolded. Sometimes the best blessings come wrapped in the scariest packages, and sometimes the people you think you barely know turn out to be your biggest supporters.

And Mama? Well, she’s already picking out baby names and knitting tiny booties.

And just yesterday, she said, “You know, sugar, maybe it’s time I started getting out more. Mrs. Jones’ brother just moved to town…”

Let’s see what happens next.

If you enjoyed reading this story, here’s another one you might like: Emma’s world was upended when her father abruptly called her home from university, only to demand she vacate her room for her reckless stepbrother. Months later, another urgent call revealed their family home in ruins, igniting a journey of redemption and rebuilding for them all.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.