The Choice I Couldn't Say

DETOUR ON I-40

EPISODE 02

CONTENT NOTE: This episode contains depictions of intimate-partner violence, sexual assault, reproductive coercion, and pregnancy-related decision-making.

I remember the night it all began as clearly as if I were watching a movie unfold in slow motion in front of me. The shock of reality hit me like a lightning bolt as I stared at the positive result on the pregnancy test, the first of many I would take in disbelief. Over the course of a week, I took four more, each time retreating to the solitude of my childhood bathroom, waiting in silence for results that never changed. Still blinded by the image he had painted for me, I gathered all the tests, tucked them into a Ziploc bag, and hid them away. I dressed mechanically, my movements numb as I slipped into the light blue Mercedes my parents had let me borrow to tell him—the father who was not expecting this very truth. The drive down the long city highway felt endless, every mile stretching out as I clung to the belief that I was delivering what would be joyous news to the man who had once promised to move mountains for me. It never crossed my mind that he might react differently. Standing at the clinic doors with my mother, my thoughts continued to spiral. I remembered arriving at his apartment, his brother letting me in with a sleepy wave and pointing me toward the back. I found the father of my unborn child lying on a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets positioned in front of a box fan. I tapped him gently, trying to wake him from his sleep. He pulled the sheet from his face, blinking up at me before turning down the fan to listen. I reached into the plastic bag and handed him one of the tests. Any hope of a romantic reveal was long forgotten. This was reality, raw and unedited. He stared at the test as if it were some alien object, something I had created out of thin air. Without a word, he handed it back to me and covered his face again, resuming his sleep as if nothing had changed. Stunned, I couldn’t comprehend his indifference. I shook him awake, thinking he hadn’t understood. Maybe it hadn’t registered that I had just handed him a glimpse of our future. He turned over again, muttering that it was just one test and it could be wrong. Desperate, I pulled out the other tests, showing him that this was no mistake. Finally, he sat up, the weight of the situation sinking in. He realized then that I was carrying his child, and he was faced with a choice. I stood at the clinic doors, remembering how impossible it became to reconcile the tenderness I once associated with him with the brutality that followed. The memory, once so cherished, was forever tainted by his actions a month later. Actions that forced me toward a choice I would later regret. I had moved away from the friction, confinement, and secrecy that came with staying by his side, hoping to escape the nightmare that had taken root in what I thought was paradise. In just thirty days, uncertainty over the fate of our unborn child clouded everything. Arguments escalated into physical altercations and, eventually, one unforgettable night that gave me a glimpse of total, life-ending darkness and sexual violence while I floated in and out of consciousness. That dream of a new family turned into a living hell. The argument that night erupted over a conversation he had, full of disrespect and dismissiveness, as if our unborn child were invisible. The same man who once promised me the world reduced me to a screaming mess. I desperately called for help after he struck me, leaving me with a black eye with a force I never imagined he could muster. The room was pitch black except for a sliver of light from the closet that cut through the darkness like a blade. He moved quickly, trapping me in the small space and pushing me against the shelves as my breath grew short and my gasps for air weakened. In that suffocating moment, my mind detached. I drifted away from the terror as I fought against his hands around my throat. I blacked out, slipping into a void where time and pain ceased to exist. When I came to, consciousness snapped back as I felt his unwanted presence inside me. He whispered hollow apologies and “I love yous,” loosening his grip just enough to allow me to breathe again—but only just. His hands were ready to tighten if I dared to scream. That nightmare replaced any fond memory I had of the moment the pregnancy news came to be. That night scarred any thoughts I had about a future for us. What followed immediately after would increase the turmoil in my life more than ever. I reached out for help after the fight. My brothers and father came to my aid, leaving comments about my choices out of the equation. To them, my safety was more important. It didn’t become apparent to them that I was pregnant until later, in an emergency room where my mother had taken me. “The pregnancy test came back,” the emergency room nurse announced after a period of waiting and a battery of tests, once the details of that night had been disclosed. That was the moment this choice became real. Up until then, we had lived with the secret, trying to come up with a plan. But now my family was involved, and the truth was out. I had no idea what would happen next. With only a few fleeting moments left before entering the clinic, my mind drifted back to what happened after that trip to the emergency room. The secret I had desperately tried to keep was finally forced into the open. I remember the paralyzing fear that gripped me as I left with my mother—the secret revealed and the fear of judgment following me, much like the fear I felt now. After the twenty-minute car ride and short walk through the garage, the air inside my childhood home was thick with tension. My mother’s footsteps echoed like the approach of something inevitable. My mother and father spoke briefly. Their combined words shattered the fragile silence with the force of an explosion as I stood in the middle of the living room. The secret was out, and no amount of willpower could make those words unsaid. I was pregnant. I watched in silent dread as my father scanned the paperwork. Every instinct in me screamed to run, to flee from the reality that had just been thrust upon us. Instead, with calm demeanors, my parents excused themselves from the room for a minute. They returned with a plan they had agreed on and delivered it to me with one short ultimatum. “Get an abortion, or you will have to leave this house.” I paused after hearing it. At eighteen, those words sounded like a “my way or the highway” moment instead of words from parents who didn’t want their child to have to grow up faster than they had prepared for. Like any teenager, I was set on what I thought, but too scared to reply with anything other than agreement in that moment. And now, here I was at the clinic with my mother, the shouts of protesters outside filling the air with their harsh judgments. My hands shook as I reached for the handle on the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt as though I had no choice but to face what was coming. The ground beneath me seemed to shift under the weight of what I was about to do. The walk to the clinic doors had felt endless, each step echoing with the words of the protesters and the fear gnawing at my insides. Finally, I pulled the clinic door open with a quiet whoosh. My mother and I crossed the threshold and were immediately handed a clipboard with check-in paperwork at the front desk. My mouth felt dry, my voice trapped somewhere deep inside me, unable to form even the simplest words. I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge the staff. It took everything I had just to keep moving. I chose a seat as far from the clinical rooms as possible and sank into the chair with a heavy sigh. The thought pounded in my mind, relentless and unyielding: I don’t want to be here. I repeated it over and over, but the courage to speak up eluded me, as did the strength to face the consequences with my parents. Minutes dragged by in painful silence as I sat beside my mother in the waiting room. Then a nurse emerged from the back, calling my name with a calmness that seemed out of place in the chaos of my thoughts. Kind of callous and familiar. My mother and I rose to follow her, our footsteps reverberating down the sterile hallway. We were led into a private room, where I took a seat on an exam table and my mother settled into a chair as the nurse began to take my vitals. Her attempts at light conversation did little to ease the tension. Once she finished, she turned to my mother and explained that the doctor would be in shortly to perform an ultrasound to determine how far along I was. A lump formed in my throat, and I struggled to swallow the rising tide of nervousness. The thought of my mother discovering I was further along than she believed made my heart race. I was terrified—not just of the truth, but of the fact that I was still here, still expected to go through with this procedure, and still not sharing that Lorenzo and I had found out months before. Just then, the doctor entered the room, the same nurse from before trailing behind her with an ultrasound machine. They asked my mother to step out. I watched as she left, the door closing softly behind her. The doctor took a seat beside me, her manner calm and reassuring as she began to speak. It was clear the nurse had shared her observations with the doctor before they came in. As the doctor talked, I found myself nodding along, absorbing her words like a lifeline. She explained the purpose of the ultrasound and what would happen next, her voice steady and measured. I clung to her instructions as if they were a thread that could guide me through this nightmare. “I understand that this is a difficult decision that you had to make so early in your adult life. By law, I have to ask a second time for legal purposes: are you sure you would like to go through with this procedure today?” the doctor asked confidently. This was the moment I was free of pressure from my mother. I could clearly state my intentions. But nothing came out. Sensing something in my struggle to answer, the doctor nodded and turned toward the nurse as if the two were silently exchanging a message. I hoped whatever message passed between them would lead to something peaceful for me. “Okay, so before we can go forward with the procedure, we will have to get measurements of your baby to determine how far along you are,” the doctor said. The nurse moved closer with the ultrasound machine. I lay back on the exam table, my heart hammering in my chest. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, but I prayed silently for something, anything that would bring me relief from the relentless thoughts of my parents, my child’s father, and my own turmoil. The nurse spread the cold gel across my stomach and moved the wand with careful precision. The sensation was oddly soothing despite the gravity of the situation. It was like waiting for an answer from a Magic 8 Ball, hoping the images on the screen would somehow offer me a way out. The nurse took several screenshots, each one printing with a quiet whir, and the doctor studied them intently. After what felt like an eternity, she called my mother back into the room. As she explained that I was too far along to proceed with the procedure, I avoided my mother’s gaze, swallowing the urge to show any outward sign of relief. The doctor and nurse continued providing information, talking about my pregnancy and the tests they had just conducted, but their words faded into the background. My mind was elsewhere, overwhelmed by the fact that the relief I felt came from something I already knew deep down but had been too scared to voice. On the walk back to the parking lot, my mother’s voice was heavy with disappointment and concern as she lectured me. Her words were filled with the struggles she had wanted to spare me from. I mainly stayed silent, the weight of the day pressing down on me. I didn’t say much on the ride home. The words stayed caught in my throat, but I knew I would never forget that trip to the women’s clinic. A day that changed everything. The day I discovered I had chosen without ever saying it aloud. I never told my mother that relief was one of the first things I felt when the doctor said I was too far along. I didn’t have to say yes. I didn’t have to say no. My body had answered the question before I could. That was the first time I understood that silence could still be a choice.

THE ROAD DOESN’T END HERE.

You’ve reached the end of your complimentary Detour on I-40 episodes.

There are still miles ahead—and not every turn is on the map.

The story continues for Storykeepers on November 1. CONTINUE EXPLORING THE UNIVERSE →