That's one way to put it

 Sometimes I'm unsure of how to express myself. I want to present them in a nice, neat package that makes them easier to hear. I want to say the words, but I can't get them out, so I find a different way to tell them. I found myself doing that last weekend, and it makes me angry, but I don't know how to do it any other way. I was out and someone asked about Vincent's father.  She asked if it was ok to ask, I said, of course, I am open until I realize the words that need to come out are more than ugly.  A million thoughts go through my head; the room starts to shrink. How do I say it? What will her reaction be? Will she think differently of me and Vincent? So I say, 

"My house was broken into and I got pregnant". Then the silence.

 In my head, I know exactly what that means. I hear the words come out of my mouth and think, well, that isn't it, but that makes it easier for them to bear, right?   I am trying to make it easier for others, but really, they don't understand what I am trying to say. Does that really make it any easier?  I see the confused look as they try to find the meaning in the words. And as soon as the words come out, the look on their faces, and even then, I want to take it all back and make it anything other than what it is. It's like they are trying to figure out what I said, and the thoughts run through my mind just say the words, but I can't. Not out loud, because the truth still hurts sometimes. 

I was raped and got pregnant. Those are the real words that fit, and I feel my heart sinking. Sinking for the day, but so excited for the after.

The words that I really need to say are so very different, but I desperately think that somehow the nice words will make it sound better, like somehow you will think better of me. Like it's better for your house to get broken into than the fact that I let him in and got raped. I will be glad when I can say the actual words without a thought about what others think.  That day is just a piece of my story that has brought me here to this moment. 

I would do that day all over again in a heartbeat to be Vincent and Marisk's mom.  To be Amelia's Poppi. I would not change that day for a single thing to be different.  Without that day, I wouldn't have the best part of my story. 

I want to be in a place where I am comfortable speaking the words and feeling proud of all that I have accomplished, despite the things that have happened to me. There is this before-and-after piece that fits this situation. There is August 22, the day that I got pregnant, the day all he cared about was his car and getting his needs met. The day he put that pillow over my face and the world went black. That day, I just wanted to be normal; I wanted to belong, to have a normal experience of lunch and shopping. 

Two weeks later, when I took that test, it was positive. That was my time, that was the moment I was going to be a mom, and they were going to be everything amazing and wonderful. That was the day that mattered the most, that would change the course of history. It was then that my dreams began to come true. There was the beginning of an entirely different story, which has shaped me into the person I am today. We have struggled, we have won, we have made our own way in this crazy world. I always want them to know that they are the after, they are the best part of everything that I have ever done. 

There are conversations to be had, someday. I wonder if, in time, Amelia will have questions, or perhaps there will be an understanding that this is just our life. I don't know, but I hope that when the time comes. I will be well prepared say the word and explain that the rape was the before, but the after, oh the after is the most fantastic gift.  I get to be her poppi. I will put my hands on her little cheeks, and tell her Oh, beautiful girl, because of your dad, I have you, and that is everything. 

I heart your heart.