i'm 13 , took a pregnancy test, and it come out positive (my parents don't know yet). what do i do?

I sat on the closed toilet seat, my knees pulled up to my chest, staring at the thin white stick lying on the edge of the sink. Two pink lines. It was positive.

I was thirteen. Just thirteen.

I didn’t cry, not at first. I just stared at the test, blinking slowly, trying to figure out what I was supposed to feel. My heart felt like it wasn’t beating, just stuck—frozen in fear. I had bought the test two days earlier with the money I had saved from birthdays. I got it from the small pharmacy across town where no one would recognize me. I had told the woman behind the counter it was for my sister.

But it wasn’t. It was for me.

The symptoms had been piling up—nausea in the morning, feeling dizzy, my period a no-show for two months now. At first, I thought it was stress or maybe something to do with growing up. But deep down, I knew. I knew something was different.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t look pregnant. I didn’t look like a mother. I looked like a scared kid in an oversized hoodie with messy hair and a thousand fears bottled up inside.

What would my parents say? My mom would probably cry. My dad would yell. I didn’t want to see that look of disappointment in their eyes. I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking their hearts.

I picked up the test and wrapped it in tissue, hiding it in a box under my bed with my old toys. My phone buzzed on the counter—it was a message from Maya, my best friend.

Maya: “You okay? You’ve been quiet lately.”

I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back.

Me: “Can I tell you something? Like, seriously tell you?”

Ten seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

Maya: “Of course. Always.”

Within an hour, I was sitting in her room, my hoodie pulled over my head, my hands shaking. I told her everything. About Jake, the boy from school, the night we hung out at his cousin’s house when his parents were out of town. It wasn’t supposed to happen. We didn’t even really know what we were doing. We were both just kids pretending to be grown-ups.

Maya didn’t judge. She held my hand and asked, “Do you want to keep it?”

I didn’t know. I hadn’t even thought that far. All I knew was that I was scared and lost and too young for any of this.

“I think I have to tell my mom,” I said eventually. “But I don’t know how.”

“Want me to come with you?” she asked softly.

“No,” I said. “I have to do it alone.”

That night, after dinner, when my dad went to walk the dog, and my little brother was watching cartoons in the other room, I found my mom in the kitchen folding laundry. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest.

“Mom?” I whispered.

She looked up. “Yes, honey?”

“I… I need to tell you something. But please don’t get mad.”

Her face turned serious. “What is it?”

I took a deep breath, the kind that felt like it took all the air in the room with it.

“I took a pregnancy test. And it was positive.”

For a moment, there was only silence. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, blinking, like she was trying to process the words.

“Are you sure?” she asked finally, her voice trembling.

I nodded.

She sat down on the kitchen stool and covered her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t yell.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered. “You must be so scared.”

That’s when I started to cry. The kind of crying where your whole body shakes, and all the fear and guilt pour out at once. She opened her arms, and I fell into them, sobbing against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, rocking me gently. “We’re going to figure this out. You’re not alone.”

That night, she told my dad. There was yelling at first. Confusion. Anger. But then quiet. Then tears. Then hugs. They didn’t hate me. They didn’t throw me out. They didn’t stop loving me.

The next day, we went to the doctor to confirm the test. I was about ten weeks along. My mom held my hand during the ultrasound. I heard the heartbeat, a tiny whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. It didn’t feel real. Not yet.

We talked a lot over the next few days. About choices. About what I wanted. About what it meant. There were options—adoption, parenting, abortion. None of them were easy. All of them were hard.

I decided I wanted to keep the baby. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I knew my life would change. That I wouldn’t be like other kids my age anymore. But I also knew I would have help—my parents, my school counselor, even Maya.

I was still scared. But I wasn’t alone.

I’m thirteen. I made a mistake. A big one. But I’m owning it now. I’m learning. Growing. And I have a little heartbeat inside me that reminds me every day: this is real.

I’m not ready. But I’m trying.

And that counts for something.