May 10, 1960

I woke up this morning feeling empty. Relieved of my responsibilities should feel good. But it doesn't. Why? It is different but I can't find a word that describes how I feel right now. Nurses are whispering outside my door. Do they know? Well of course they do, they were the same nurses that were here yesterday morning and I will probably see the same nurses that were here last night when my baby was born. My baby. My baby. Where is my baby? I clench my eyes shut trying to forget the cries. Cries from a baby I will never hold. "Are you alright?", a small voice asks from the other side of the curtain. Now I remember that I have a roommate. She definitely knows. She asked hundreds of questions about my....the baby, until the nurses finally hushed her up. I could hear the whispered voices and gasps when she was told I was giving my child up for adoption. What do I care? Who does she think she is! She has no idea what I have been through; the condemning stares, the disapproving gazes from my mother, and him, where is he now? Probably out celebrating the fact that there will not be another mouth to feed. He could at least come see me and comfort me. It doesn't matter. I don't need any one's help and especially any of their pity. I did what I had to do and it's done. No turning back. Finally the whispering stops, I am told I will be moved to another room so I will "be more comfortable". Will that stop the whispers, the looks, the sometimes blatant hostility?