"Are you ready to go?" My boyfriend asked, peeking his head cautiously into the doorway of the hospital room where I sat, hastily shoving my belongings into my suitcase, all the while trying my best not to think about the day's events.

"No," I answered with a sigh, but it was more a whisper to myself than an reply out loud to him. I mean, how could anyone ever be ready for something like this?

He stepped in and placed a hand gently upon my shoulder. "You doing okay?" He questioned, gently massaging my shoulders with his hands. But his touch, which once brought me so much comfort and so much joy, now only made me sick to my stomach.

"What do you think?"

He didn't respond which I guessed mean he got the idea.

I caught sight once more of the empty bassinet in the corner of the room, taunting me with its mere prescence. I cursed silently to myself, wondering why it had even been left sitting there. I mean, why the hell had they not taken the thing out of my room hours before when they'd taken her?

Were they trying to make this all more difficult for me?

Were they trying to make the heartache worse than it already was?

They were doing a good job of it.

I wiped the tears that had leaked from my eyes and were now carelessly streaming down my face. I needed to get out of this place and away from these memories. At least for a little while. Not forever. Maybe I could just get lost somewhere... come back a new and different person.

I felt him beside me again as he took my hand. This time I jerked it away.

How incredibly stupid could I have been? One night of foolish passion, now traded for a lifetime of sorrow and regret.

This should have been one of the happiest days of my life. This should have been a joyous occasion.

Women all over the world plan for this same moment their entire lives. They hope for it. They dream of it. They anticipate it with every fiber of their being up until that exact moment that God takes over and says, "it's time."

But not me.

I don't believe God had anything to do with our sheer stupidity.

I yanked my suitcase off the bed and gasped in pain as I reached down and rubbed my now empty abdomen. There he was again to take my bag and grab my hand. I let him have the bag but peeled my hand away once more. I didn't want to be touched... I didn't feel like being loved.

I felt dirty.

No one ever warned me how much this was going to hurt.

No one ever told me I'd feel the pain long after the labor had ended.

As we stepped out into the hallway I was overcome once again with a sense of guilt and anguish. There were signs of babies everywhere. Anxious fathers walking about, giving one another congratulatory handshakes and high fives. Family members and friends brought in balloons and flowers and anxious smiles.

I looked over and saw that my boyfriend was staring at the floor... maybe this was affecting him too. Somewhere deep inside of me I hoped it was. But I also doubted he felt even a fraction of the hurt I was feeling. Because how could he?

A couple passed by us on their way out. The woman in a wheelchair. The tiny baby cradled in her lap. The husband carried a diaper bag and infant car seat. The nurse pushed a cart with flowers and gifts. People smiled as they walked by and admired their beautiful new bundle of joy.

I frowned as the tears began to flow again. No one stopped me to say good luck... to tell me how great I looked... to say congratulations. Where were my flowers and gifts? Where were my diaper bag and my teeny tiny diapers? Where was the carseat? The stroller? Where was my wheelchair?

Where was my baby?

Oh... I knew.

I'd given her up for adoption. I'd spent only a few short hours with her... holding her, cuddling her, smelling her sweet baby smell before I'd handed her over to her new mom and dad like she was a possession to be traded or given away. I said goodbye as if the last nine months had suddenly melted away and meant nothing. I'd sat there and watched them hold her and change her... feed her and fall in love with her... and I hated them for it.

And loved them for it all the same.

Elizabeth Marie... that was the name I had picked out for her... when I'd thought about keeping her so long ago.

Ava Grace was the name on her birth certificate. The name her parents gave to her.

The product of my love. Grown within me for nine long months. No longer my own. No longer a part of me... or my life.

My boyfried reached over and wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the car. I turned around and looked one last time to the doors of the hospital. How could I have been so stupid?

"You're doing the best thing for her," They'd told me repeatedly.

"You're doing this so that she can have a better life."

You know, they say hell is paved with good intentions. I think hell IS good intentions. Giving away my daughter, even if it was in her best interest sure was hell.

He opened the car door for me and I slid carefully inside, the pain worsening as I sunk back into the seat.

Good.

I deserved this. I deserved the pain.

I let her go... I said goodbye. So now I had to suffer.

Secretly I hoped the pain would kill me.

But mostly, I hoped someday she'd understand.

I did it because I loved her.