Allison

Meet Allison. She stirs her coffee with one hand while grabbing napkins with the other. The woman she is accompanied by is still placing her order at this little café in the city, and a chocolate cookie is in her hand. Offering it to Allison through a mouthful of the sweet goodness, she laughs as she spills chocolate out of her mouth. Allison refuses, “I use to love chocolate, but ever since I’ve been pregnant, I just don’t like it anymore. Weird, huh?” The older woman laughs, takes her coffee, and heads to a table near the back with Allison behind her. Even under her black, wool coat and the big scarf she has hanging around her neck, she is unmistakably pregnant.

I get my drink and sit at a table next to them with my journal in hand. It’s my last time at Square One Coffee before my move to Cockeysville. There’s a lot of commotion tonight: an impromptu band is stumbling through music, a few people sit at tables with laptops in front of them, and I can hear the staff joking in the kitchen.

I start to learn about these two women. The older one is Catholic, and a single parent herself. Allison is living by herself, just started college, is agnostic, and is very much expecting. The two hardly know one another, but Allison feels comfortable with this woman for some reason, and has sought her out for advice.

They talk about the options. There’s option A: to keep the baby. Option B is adoption, and option C is abortion. Because the older woman went through the same thing, and kept her baby even though it was rough, her advice is to go with option A. She is definitely pro-life, by her comments, and would be just as happy for Allison if she chose option B. Allison talks through the entire situation: the boyfriend, the house, school, work, friends . . . . She doesn’t see how any option is doable except for option C, an abortion. She doesn’t seem to really want to abort her baby, but at the same time she doesn’t feel ready to add a baby to her lifestyle. Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she sighs. “What am I suppose to do?”

The conversation turns toward God. There’s a fire to the older woman’s voice now, and a frustration to Allison’s. This is not what she came to talk about. The older woman soon changes the subject, leaving Allison with a challenge to look up to heaven and ask God, if He is real, to help her.

The pair soon leaves the shop, leaving me at the table with my journal and pen, and a prayer for Allison and her little one.

That was last week. I still think about Allison and the tiny person inside her, and I pray for her.