The most bitter pill of all

I told you so screams in my head, trapped in my throat.

When my girls’ good friend—let’s call her Becky—started seeing the older man, I warned them with every strong word at my disposal.  “Keep her away from that guy; he’ll be the biggest mistake of her life.” My girls shrugged and agreed he was bad news. Nevermind the anger issues. Nevermind that he was almost twice her age. It didn’t take a Phi Beta Kappa to figure out that a guy with Aryan tattoos applied in prison probably wasn’t ideal boyfriend material.

When she continued to see him, I tried again: “Mark my words; this guy is going to manipulate her, use her and she’s going to end up pregnant.” Here they thought I was being a little over the top. “She’ll date him 3 weeks, tops,” they both said, with total certainty. It was her pattern. Trust them, they said. They knew.

I pressed on. “This guy is manipulating her. He’s 35! He was in a prison gang! For the love of gawd-”

“MOM!” they interrupted. “We know. We’ve warned her. In 3 weeks he’ll break her heart and she’ll move on.” They were so convinced.

I set about fuming and seething in my not-so-quiet rage. And we—my husband and I—forbid them to socialize with this girl while her boyfriend was present. And when he wasn’t? “Get her away from that guy,” we warned. “She’s going to end up pregnant or abused. Or both.”

I’m going to be classist here. In fact, I’m going to be racist here. As a white woman, I despise, loathe and repudiate ANYONE who uses my skin color as a justification for racial pride and social superiority. Using the symbols of mass genocide as a marker for some disgusting sense of self inflation? It’s pathological.

And no, crazy person, you can’t defend it to me. “White pride” is horrifying and people with those beliefs shouldn’t breed. They’re an embarrassment to those of us who share their pigmentation. I’m racist like that.

Here you might ask, “How does an intelligent, college-bound young woman meet and come to socialize with a white-supremacist felon?”

Blah blah second chances blah served his time blah friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend blah. If Lifetime Television and the occasional Oprah have taught me anything, it’s that guys that fit this m.o. are predators. He sought her out, separated her from the herd and went in for the kill.

After two weeks, she was in love. By week five, my girls were begging her to ditch this guy. Becky knew it was wrong. Becky knew she shouldn’t be with him. Becky didn’t care. She loved him, he totally got her and they had a connection and even though they had no beliefs in common and she disagreed with everything he stood for, she had to accept him. Because that’s what you do when you’re in love. I wanted to scream in her stupid, stupid face.

And yet when she sat at my kitchen table one Saturday afternoon, drinking coffee and laughing with my daughters, I said nothing. I stared at the elephant in the room, marveled at its size and stench, and I sucked in my bitter words knowing it wasn’t my place to try and save her. I couldn’t save her. I wasn’t her mom.

Ahhhh, yes: The parents. Where are her parents?

Mom is swimming at the bottom of a bottle. Dad is too into his second marriage and family to care. And regardless, nobody in her family knew she was with him—or bothered to ask who the hell she was dating—until he was back in prison on a parole violation.

But see, I knew. I was a parent. Just not hers. Why did I let that stop me?

By this time, our constant conversations with our girls had long ago taken affect. They’d already had the “We love you, but” conversation with her. We love you, but we can’t watch you do this to yourself. We can’t save you. We’ll be here when you end it. As every parent of an addict knows, at some point you have to walk away. My girls were the closest thing she had to responsible adults in her life. Their words bounced off her like rain on an umbrella. Becky was sad, but the words didn’t make a dent.

Bear in mind this conversation took place the weekend before he was sent back to prison. Bear in mind Becky said she’d stand by him, even while he was in prison, even though she secretly wanted and desperately needed therapy.

That was the last we’d heard. Nearly two months passed. She called last night to tell my girls she’s 8-weeks pregnant. It’s his. Adoption and abortion are off the table—she’s keeping the baby.

My daughter delivers the news with a deep sadness in her voice. I stare at the wall.

She’s so lost. It’s not my life; she’s not my daughter. And I can’t stop thinking about her and struggling with a sense of responsibility.

I told you so has the ugliest aftertaste of all.