There are always two sides to every story. One side, unfiltered and real, while the other isn’t. Photo by Maria Bates

“Tom, are you sure you’re ready for this?” I asked when he looked away from me. I wanted him to say “no,” but he didn’t. His head turned halfway towards me, and then he looked away again. He didn’t look at me. 

“Yes, it is too late now. So, let’s just do it,” he said, not glancing at me at all. I let go of his hand; it was cold. I sat in the passenger seat, silent. I touched my stomach, it felt empty, vacant. I cried throughout the whole process; it pained me, shattered my heart, and all I could do was close my eyes. I felt a tear fall down my cheek. I brushed it off. Tom kept driving. My entire body turned cold; how could I have let myself be with this man?

“Tom,” I started. He scowled at me. I closed my mouth and swallowed. 

“It’s too late, dear. Just sit there and twirl your hair while you look out the window,” he said in a flat tone. I nodded my head and didn’t talk for the rest of the ride. We arrived at Tom’s dad’s trailer, and when we pulled up, my stomach dropped. This place was not a happy place; his mother had died in the trailer, and his father drank himself to sleep each night. I wonder what version of his father I would face today. I got out of the car, and I suddenly wanted to run to the driver’s side and drive away. I didn’t. Tom put his hand on the lower part of my back and guided me to the front screen door. 

“Let’s get going, dear. Just a couple steps to the door. Now, don’t throw a hissy fit you hear now,” he said, letting his southern accent slip. I didn’t say anything, and I followed behind Tom into the trailer. I wish I had never gone into that trailer that day.