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A Journey of Years: Chapter Two: The Consequences of Love

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At 4:30, one afternoon in late April, my mother met me at the bus stop after school. She wanted to walk me home, though it wasn’t a long walk, just across the neighbors’ front yard.

 “Lizzy,” she said to me, with that look that tells you your not as clever as you think you are and your parents are on to you. “Lizzy, I found a note in your coat pocket.”

Crap! I knew exactly what she had found. My stomach turned cartwheels and my heart raced like a steam engine out of control. It had been the first warm day of spring and I hadn’t given a thought to wearing my coat, nor to what I had left in the pockets.

She ushered me up the front steps and into the dark foyer. It took just a moment for my eyes to adjust, upon which I could see my dad on the living room sofa, home from work...early.

“I want you to take these.” she told me as she handed the pink box.

“Mom, I’m not pregnant, I promise … there’s no way ... ”

“Elizabeth, take the tests.” My dad was using his tone of authority, which he saved only for people he was going to fire and children that were in trouble.

I looked plaintively at my mother, but she just turned her face downward.

“I’m coming with you.” she said.

Oh, I couldn’t stand this, my gut was ripping in two with shame and guilt. I could run from it any longer either, evidently. My dad looked so angry and mother just looked ready to give up. I had put them through so much already, this would be the final and ultimate let down. The shattering of all their hopes for their lovely young daughter.

My mother and I stood together in the bathroom and watched the two tests very closly and with great tension. I again promised her that there was absolutely no way I could be pregnant, but she maintained her stoney silence.

 “She is.” said my mother as we re-entered the living room.

“Christ, Elizabeth,” sighed my dad. ”You’d better call that boy and tell him to get his butt (that’s a substitution, the word my dad actually used was too rude for a lady to write) down here .. now!”

“Elizabeth, how could you do this to yourself, you’re only fifteen.” My mother had her face in her hands, sobbing almost hysterically.

All I could say was, “I’m sorry.”


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