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That Was What Hurt Me the Most Page 6

Updated on January 11, 2019

Page Six

I was sixteen years old. My boyfriend of one year, was two years older than me. I was still living in the foster home and now had to tell my foster parents that I was pregnant. I was afraid to tell them because they had preached to me many times to not have sex until after marriage. I told my social worker instead, who told my foster parents for me. I sat in my bedroom while they discussed what was to be done next. A short while later I was called down to the kitchen where my unknown future awaited.
I quietly slid into a chair, the furthest one away from the three adults whom all looked very large to me at that moment. I could not look anyone in the eye so I stared at the table that separated us. I had the tiniest hope dancing around in my head. I hoped that one of them would say, “Oh the doctor called and it turns out that the tests were wrong, …you’re NOT pregnant!”, and then we would all laugh and hug. As silly as that sounds, I really hoped that was going to happen. Of course it didn’t. Instead, my foster parents demanded to know what I was planning to do because in their eyes there was only one thing I could do… have the baby. They explained, that I was welcome to stay with them until the baby was born then I would be moved to a ‘home’ for young mothers. If I was to decide to give the baby up for adoption then I could stay with them. If my choice was to abort then I absolutely had to move out immediately because that was against their beliefs and they would have nothing to do with it. I asked for time to think it over and they agreed, but I didn’t have long.
My boyfriend’s parents invited me over for dinner. I found that to be very odd considering I was not allowed to step foot on their property before. I would always have to wait on the sidewalk while my boyfriend would run in to quickly eat his supper. I would envision myself sitting at their dining room table, eating and laughing with them as if I were a part of the family, -while I sat on that sidewalk all alone. I thought maybe now they would actually welcome me in because I was pregnant with their grandchild. They would have to understand that I did not plan for this, I took the pill every day as instructed. But since it happened, maybe they would be happy. Of course they were not. As I now sat at their dining room table they glared at me demanding to know my plans for the fetus growing inside me. I told them that we had decided together that we would keep the baby. (It was actually my boyfriend who ‘told’ me what we were going to do, he loved me and wanted to be a family). I was sixteen, alone and scared. His parents immediately jumped down my throat. There was no way they were going to let that happen. They asked him what he wanted to do. He looked away from me as he told them that he agreed with them. My stomach turned. He was the only person in the world who I thought loved me and here he was abandoning me and saving himself. I felt the color leave my body. I was in shock and unsure of what to do. I sat there with my mouth hanging open. They were screaming at me insisting that I have an abortion. Tears poured down my face. I suggested that I have the baby and give it up for adoption. I did not want to even think about aborting the pregnancy. They would not agree to adoption. “No way,” they screamed, “you will just end up keeping the ’bleeping’ thing and our son’s life will be ruined because you are nothing but a ’bleeping’ whore!” (I should probably have explained earlier that my boyfriend’s mother really liked his ex-girlfriend. His ex called the house often and when my boyfriend wasn’t home, she would chat with his mother. His parents had a poor opinion of me long before they met me).
I was lying in the hospital bed waiting for my boyfriend to come back. He had gone out to smoke a cigarette. I heard footsteps and looked up expecting to see him walking in, but it was my mother. A friend of hers worked at the clinic and told her I was there. She sat beside my bed without saying a word. I could see that she had been crying. For a second I thought that she was actually crying FOR me, for the pain I was going through, for the fear that I felt, because as a mother she must be worried about me, -right? Then she spoke, “why are you doing this to me?” I couldn’t respond to that because I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. What did she think I was doing to her? I never wanted her to know I was there in the first place and now here she was making me feel even more alone and scared then I already was. I cried while she repeated that question a few times, then we both just silently wept. Her hand was on the side of my bed. I gently put my hand on top of hers. She immediately pulled her hand away, wiped her nose with a tissue, then got up and left the room. I heard her friend meet up with her in the hallway just outside my door. I peeked around the partition curtain that was partially closed around my bed to see her friend was hugging her and telling her that this wasn’t her fault. My mother, as always loved the attention she received when she played ‘the victim’. She sobbed loudly into her friend’s shoulder. Then they walked away. I cried alone in my bed until the nurse came in to prep me for surgery. That was what hurt me the most.


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