How I Wish That I Knew Her Story

I just stepped into a fast food restaurant to enjoy a cup of coffee while I wait for my daughters. What I happened upon really has me bothered.

A young girl, late teens, maybe early twenties is at a corner table in the back, she watched intently as the pregnancy test that was perched upon her pajama clad thigh developed. Positive was the result, from what I could see. Slowly she rose and disappeared into the ladies room.

I continued to sip my beverage as I wondered, is she happy, is she sad, what’s the story? She came out of the ladies room and I covertly witnessed her shuffle, a slow gait, heavy with burden. She left the restaurant and shuffled across the parking lot, shivering in her thin pajamas as she disappeared among the trees buffering the next restaurant from sight.

Maybe I don’t know her story, but I know what it is like to put another life first, before the child is even born, and for many years following. I know what it’s like to wonder if tomorrow will be a better day. I know what it’s like to think that eventually things will go back to normal. Then to wonder, what the hell is normal?

She is probably half my age, but still, I know … I remember … I live it.

When will the world stop turning? When will I get this thing called life right? What have I done to deserve so much turmoil and contemplation?

Yeah, I know, I can relate; and my guess is that you can try to relate too, you may even succeed.

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