Do freedoms have a shelf life?

Choices

I was 31 years old, newly separated and parenting my 3 1/2-year-old daughter, when the friend of a friend offered to help me with some home repairs. He was a contractor, and said the job could be easily completed in a weekend. I was grateful for his thoughtfulness, and accepted his offer, a simple business agreement.

I remember that it was a clear, crisp Sunday afternoon when he finished the repairs. I had just put my daughter down for her nap, and closed door to her room, when I heard Jack whisper.

“Come in here and have a look.”

“Ok. What do I owe you?”

“First, see what the walls look like,” he replied, grabbing my arms and pushing me down on the bed.

I froze.

He didn’t speak. He kept me pinned down; his arm across my throat.

I was afraid that that any noise would wake my daughter.

When he was done with me, he left, saying only that he would collect his equipment another day.

Six weeks later, a pregnancy test was positive.

I wasn’t ready to care for another child, but more importantly, I couldn’t bear the thought of carrying and delivering a child conceived through rape. I must add, it was years before I realized that what…