“You gave your baby away huh?”  I felt a rush of heat go through my body from the question.  “You can’t be a Richardson.  We don’t sell our babies.”  The words cut me like a knife.  I held the receiver, pressed tightly against my ear.  All the things I wanted to say, all the thoughts going through my mind, nothing would come out of my mouth.  Butterflies started dancing in my stomach.  I was half lying, half sitting in the narrow bed holding the receiver.  My Uncles comments left me speechless and hurt.  I just sat in the bed with the receiver to my ear knowing full well that I had been hung up on.  Finally I heard the high low tone loudly, beeping in my ear.  As if the sound of the consistent tone in my ear was a queue for me to do something, I started crying...hysterically.  The Receiver dropped hard to the polished concrete floor sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.   This was my eighth call, but only the second one like this.  The second person in my family that called to inform me I was a ‘no good baby seller’.

With me crying so loudly in such a quiet place-where I am sure most patients were asleep- you would think that someone would come and see what the problem was.  The nurse’s station was outside of my door about ten feet to the right.  But no one came into the room because no one cared.  

Where were the phone calls when I needed someone to talk to about this problem?  Where were they when I was calling around, hoping that someone would just say that I could stay with them until I got on my feet?  They were not there for me.  I could picture them all looking smugly at their caller ID’s when the telephone rang.  Seeing the 719 area code gave them the indication of who was calling.  Knowing what I wanted -what I needed for my two-year-old daughter and myself.  And if someone did answer his or her phone all I heard were “I am so sorry, “or, “I wish I could help you but.”  Hell, my own mom told me that I needed to give the baby up.   Now with all the paperwork signed, and all deals considered done, all I heard from the other end of the receiver were put-downs.  How I must be on crack, or some other type of drug.  How God would never forgive me.  Who are they to say what God will and will not forgive?  Maybe he would not forgive them for not being there for me.  Did they think about that?  My biggest problem now is forgiving myself.  Everyone developed a case of amnesia.  No one remembers not being there for me.  Nobody remembers telling me his or her idea of the best thing for me.  All they know is I had a baby boy yesterday and today he is with someone else.  They know that.  And they know that now that it is done, they don’t like it.  If anyone of them had a clue of the private hell I lived in the previous months, they would not be so quick to judge.  To claim such ill feelings towards me NOW?   I believe there would actually be compassion for me.  But there were no visits, no letters, and no calls.  Even the staff at the hospital attitudes had changed towards me.  Their noses turned up, not saying a word t