Tuesday, May 19, 2015
She does not make eye contact in the grocery store; perhaps she did not notice me. That's probably it; she did not see me. Behind her, with her grandson on his shoulders, is her boyfriend, the man who left her naked and beaten on her front porch. He is powerfully built, tall, broad-shouldered, rather handsome.
He is very good with her grandson, she had told our support group, and her grandson adores him. Yes, I had to admit, her grandson looked happy on this man's shoulders.
My stomach churned with anger and disgust. "You are what is wrong," I wanted to scream at her. "You are the reason the cops and judges don't pay attention! You! You! What's wrong with you???"
I say nothing.
I know what is wrong with her. I know, because I know. I know how desperate she is to be loved and desired, how undeserving she feels, how, if she only tries hard enough to please this man, he will love her. He will love her.
This is what's wrong.