Perspective

I knew at three weeks. I was pregnant. How. Why. We had taken precautions. This shouldn’t have happened. But it had. And it was right there in front of me. A pink plus sign leering from the white plastic handle. Just as certainly as I knew I was pregnant, I knew I wouldn’t keep my child.

A few years earlier, while picketing outside a women’s health clinic with my youth group, I noticed a girl walking inside. The shouts of the protesters became a low murmur behind me as our eyes met. She couldn’t have been too much older than I was. Short brown hair. The Smiths t-shirt. Vans. She looked at me. My braided hair falling well below my waist. WWJD shirt. Simple flats. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. I nodded. “You’re going to be fine,” I found myself saying. “I know,” her lips formed the reply. She walked inside then. I lowered my sign and walked away to wait on the bus for the others. I understood something that day.

She was me.

As I walked into the clinic years later, my friend squeezed my hand. “You’re going to be fine,” she said. “I know,” I told her. And I was.

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