As I looked at Mom, I hoped she could see I ached inside. “He loved me and cared.”
I left my plate of food on the table and ran to my bedroom. Mom screamed at me as I ran.
“Elizabeth, please come back in here. We need to finish talking.”
I couldn’t go back in the kitchen, I collapsed on my bed, which was the start of a down hill spiral of unbelief that Paul would say those sentences to my mother. Miserable would be one of only many words that described the way I felt. Paul didn’t want to see me or tell me he had been at my home. To hear those words he said to my mother made me wonder if he loved me, cared about me or just used me. I couldn’t understand why Paul didn’t tell me on the phone the night I talked to him. He was able to escape the looks of those who knew what we did together was wrong, morally. I had learned to deal with stares because of my vision problem, but this was unbearable, because, I knew it was a mistake that could have been avoided.
My bedroom walls served as a barrier against those I felt had control of my life. Often that first week I stayed in my room. I heard the door bell ring several times, but today when the door bell rang it gave me hope, because of the familiar voices I heard through my bedroom wall. Mom knocked faintly on my bedroom door and then spoke loud enough so I could hear her. “Elizabeth I would like you to come out and see our visitors.”