A Woman's Journey

Confession of a John

I lifted my body off her and walked to the weather-beaten entrance door where she hung my clothes, and took them off from the nail buried in the door.

Then the quick, successive sniffs startled me: she was sobbing. I knew I paid her before ‘delivered her services.’ Yes, it’s their practice to collect their fee before they satisfy urges.

”Why are you crying?” For the first time, her tender age was unmistakable.

”I was forced into this,” she said in resignation. ”I was deceived.’

I looked at her and could almost see the perfect picture of my daughter.


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