Hidden Regret

The sound of my footsteps echoed. Each echo ricocheted from the dark tiles beneath my feet to bounce off of tall, gray, marble pillars. The sound reverberated through the hallway. The hall, with its mahogany-stained woodwork, high ceiling, and unadorned walls, shouted authority. Leather-upholstered chairs, and long wooden benches, appeared every few feet along the corridor, but sat unoccupied. I felt so small and insignificant, yet I was the central player in the drama that was about to unfold. My heart beat rapidly inside my chest, clamoring for escape.

As I turned a corner, my lungs suddenly constricted. I reached desperately for the hand of the woman who walked beside me. My brother, father, stepmother, and aunt sat like stone statues on a bench at the end of the passageway, their faces expressionless. The hand gripping mine gave a reassuring squeeze, but the pressure did little to combat the anxiety racing through my veins. As we drew closer, I could feel every muscle in my body begin to stiffen. These people that I loved were now adversaries. These people were here to take me away from my mother.

As we, my protector and I, grew nearer, I pleaded with my eyes for a mercy that my voice could not adequately express. My eyes first rested on my brother. He smiled slightly and then quickly averted his gaze. My silent pleading was wasted on the adults as they stood, each one placing their arms around me. How could they hug me now? My pain and anxiety mingled with anger, as I willed my body not to respond. I stood stiffly within each embrace.

"Hello, Angela."

My father's use of my given name, and the resolute purpose I saw in his eyes as he looked down at me, told me all that I needed to know; there would be no mercy today. Not responding, I followed, as the hand that gripped mine became a lifeline, pulling me from a whirlpool of uncertainty, anger, pain, and confusion. I was placed in an office.

"Sweetheart, you stay here for a little while. I'll be back to get you when it's time."

I nodded, still unable to speak past the lump in my throat. If I spoke I would begin crying, and I had to be brave. That's what Mama had said as I was led from her lawyer's office earlier that morning, "I love you . . . be brave."

With the closing of the office door, my heartbeat began to calm, and my sweaty palms began to dry. I was drawn into a cocoon created by the hustle and bustle of the office workers going about

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