You will be fifteen. You will meet a guy. He might be eighteen, he might be twenty eight. He will tell you he loves you. You will know he is lying. You will smell the false in his breath; you will see it in his eyes. But you will bend over and pick his I-love-you from the floor; you will stuff it in your chest and pretend that the reason his eyes can’t seem to look away from it is because he’s staring at his words with such intensity.
You will meet at his house, or yours. Your parents will trust you enough to allow you freedom. Only you know how misplaced their trust is. You will lie down. You will be scared. They might call it rape. Only you will know it isn’t.
You will miss one period, then another, and then clutch the home test in your hand before flinging it down the toilet. It won’t change the fact that you are fifteen, a child and you’ve created another child. You will punch your tummy. Then stick your hands down your throat in a stupid attempt to get rid of the baby. But it is not misplaced fat. Or the extra chocolate bar you really shouldn’t have indulged in.
It has life. It is life.
You will cry, and then muster up the confidence to walk up to your mother. I will slap you. I will slap you. Yes I will. Secretly hoping that one act of violence would erase your act. It won’t. You will stare at me with my eyes, and my tears would run down your face. And I will ask you why you had to go down that path. I will sit you down and tell you the real reason I don’t reveal my age to you. I will tell you the truth for the first time.
I will tell you that daddy isn’t your daddy. That daddy is in jail for raping an underage child. I will tell you to kill the life within you, because you deserve a better life than I had.
But you must say no.
With fierceness in my eyes and finality in your voice you must utter the strongest no you ever have.
You must look me in the eye and tell me that an act of violence does not erase the life within you and it only makes you a murderer.
Tell me about how you stayed up all night repenting. Tell me you’re unwilling to down the path of sin again.
You must tell me how you’re secretly happy to have a child within you. And how you wonder if it’ll have your lips or your nose. You must tell me that in spite of the shame one sin does not make another sin okay.
You must tell me about the plumpness of your stomach, and how you wonder when it will start kicking. You must tell me that you wonder if it will be a little boy, or a perfect little girl. You must tell me what a miracle it is.
You must tell me that although you’re sorry, there’s never an excuse to take a life. Tell me how it is the best thing that ever happened to you.
You must tell me what in fifteen years I’m sure I would have forgotten. You must tell me what I’m trying to tell my mother now. If I’m anything like my mother you will have to tell me.
If you’re anything like me you will need to tell me.