2015 - rev 2026
When my daughter—
twenty-three, pregnant,
unemployed, single—
asked me if I would do it
over again—
if I would go through
with it,
or would I abort her,
let some fundamentalist Christian
family
raise her—
Christ, I said “of course,”
and kept twenty years
of do-over scenarios to
myself.
Because if I could do it
again,
I would not have married
him.
My sister warned me—
I knew better than
everyone—
even when I didn’t.
Every promise turned out
empty.
I realize now I should
have married him,
taken out life insurance,
killed him myself.
I would have worn my
wedding gown
let it catch the
blow-back, then buried him in it.
Then I would have flown to
Mexico,
learned Spanish—
crusaded for the girls in
the maquiladoras.
My problems are universal.
I’ll never learn
Spanish.
I’d instruct my younger self—
studied computers,
get a job at Microsoft,
retire at forty—
a stable home,
psychoanalysis for my
daughter,
private school.
I could have married for
money.
Love turned out to be a
prison.
How could it be her,
if there was a different
father?
I am afraid to say
it.
If I could do it over again,
I would not have married.
I would not have been
pregnant.
It would be best
if I could go all the way
back—
be born into a kinder
family—
not alcoholic parents.
How could it be her
if it is no longer me?
As a mother I know
the answer
can only be
“Yes, Honey, I would do
it
exactly the same.”
