...but, I love you

She was sixteen months old when her father left right after her mother died, poisoned by her own blood in a tub with her newborn son.

She was four when a timely scream and a fortuitous memory lapse saved her from a pedophile who she loved and continued to love as a granddaughter will.

She was eight when her disbelieving aunt shipped her off to her godmother to save her from a predatory uncle and cousin.

She was 18 when the ability to believe in love was extinguished; when life was no longer beautiful; when trust ceased to exist; when hope became meaningless; when her future was shattered into a thousand bits of flesh left weeping in a heap of ripped and torn clothing.

She was 24 when he said I love you and she said, I do, attempting to create the facade that might make dreams come true.

She was 25 when she gave birth and thought, now I can love and be loved.

She was 27 the first time he said, I love you, but I cannot change for you, breath stale with the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, hands clenched tightly about her arms as he held her down upon their bed, her only child feet away listening through the wall.

She was 30 when she walked away with one suitcase and her child on her hip, as he screamed from a window drunkenly though no less truthfully, but I love you!