I was eighteen. I looked closer to fourteen with big eyes and a very rounded face.
That wasn’t all that was rounded.
The khaki overalls and the pink tank top, the last outfit I had that fit comfortably over my stomach that felt as though it stuck three feet out, nearly bursting with an almost ten-pound baby boy. I was swollen. I was tired. I was scared. I was certainly not trying to be the walking parade I was. Sometimes I wanted to disappear.
Because there were stares. Eyes in a slit, curled lips. Muttered sentences that yes, I heard. I promise you: I heard.
I’m reading these news stories about Planned Parenthood. And I’m heartbroken, I am. But part of me wonders.
Wonders about those of you who cry out against these atrocities, those of you who post online with righteous indignation….
…were you the ones staring at me?