Regret
If she hadn’t moved in with him.
If she had gone back home with her brother.
If the idea of being in love, living with her boyfriend, hadn’t been all she had ever dreamed of.
If she hadn’t allowed the brilliant flowers and warm smiles, the dancing at clubs and the dinners at fancy restaurants to convince her that he loved her.
If she had left as soon as he started beating her and calling her an ugly slut, stealing her money and buying drugs, bringing drunken fights and ogling friends to the house.
She slid down from the truck in front of the house they had shared for six years. The people who drove the truck went up to the front door and she, clutching a key in her hand, followed. They went inside to the overwhelming clutter and chaos. Coats behind the door, on the couch, on the floor. A broken TV and scattered DVD’s. On the floors and beds and in the closets dirty clothes, clean clothes, toys, all tumbled together. Backpacks and homework cascading from the hall closet. On the kitchen table his opium. As the others bagged all her belongings, the kids’ toys and backpacks, she searched for the birth certificates and immunization records she had hidden. She went out to the big truck and climbed in with the others.
As they drove away, her phone rang.
If she had left when the abuse started, she wouldn’t be sitting in a stranger’s truck between two girls who barely spoke her language, her bagged belongings behind her, crying while he threatened her over the phone.
