The Ride to the Abortion Clinic

The engine hummed low as the car rolled past the edges of the neighborhood—rows of houses she knew by heart, all blurring behind the early morning mist. Emily sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight over her chest, jacket zipped high despite the warmth. She hadn’t said a word since they left.

Her dad glanced over at her but didn’t speak either. His knuckles were pale on the steering wheel.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet where everything inside you wants to scream just to feel real again.

She watched the gas station pass, the one where he used to buy her blue raspberry slushies after dance practice. They’d sit in the car with the windows down, talking about nothing and everything. That felt like a different world now.

The appointment card was folded neatly in her hoodie pocket. She didn’t need to take it out. She knew the time. 9:15.

The ride to the abortion clinic felt longer than it should’ve. The clock said they’d only been driving ten minutes, but in her chest it felt like hours—like every mile peeled something back inside her she wasn’t ready to see.

“Did you eat anything?” her dad asked finally, voice quiet.

She shook her head, still looking out the window.

“You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t press her. Just tapped the steering wheel with his thumb.

The signs on the side of the road started to change. The usual fast food billboards gave way to protest signs. Not the kind nailed to wood, but the homemade ones. Someone had hung a giant banner from the overpass that read: You’ll Regret This Forever.

Emily turned her head away.

Her dad’s jaw tightened. “Don’t look at that garbage.”

She nodded, lips pressed tight. But the words had already settled somewhere deep. Somewhere already raw.

The car slowed at a red light. Across the street, a woman was kneeling on the sidewalk, holding a rosary. Her hands moved rhythmically, eyes shut, mouth forming silent words. Behind her, a man held a sign: Jesus forgives, even now.

Emily looked at him for a second longer than she meant to. He wasn’t shouting. Just standing there. A cross hung from his neck, catching the gray light.

The light turned green.

They drove on.

“You don’t have to do this,” her dad said suddenly. It came out like it had been held in too long.

Emily’s breath caught.

“You know that, right?”

She didn’t answer.

He tried again. “I mean—I’ll support whatever you choose. But if you want to stop, we’ll stop. Right now.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the dashboard.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered.

He nodded, as if he understood. But his eyes stayed ahead.

The clinic came into view like a wound in the street. It was plain—brick, small windows, an awning that tried to look welcoming. But there was a crowd already outside. Not big. Maybe five or six. But loud. And close.

Her father pulled into the small parking lot. The protesters turned. Some held signs. One woman pointed. Emily’s stomach turned.

“I’ll walk with you,” her dad said.

But she didn’t move.

Time passed like it had forgotten how.

Then—her voice, hoarse: “Can we just sit here a minute?”

He turned the engine off.

They sat.

In the silence, she could hear them outside. Shouting things she tried not to understand. And over it, one voice that rose not in anger but prayer.

“God, be near her,” someone said.

It wasn’t shouted. It was prayed.

Be near her.

She looked at her dad. He looked older than she’d ever seen him.

“I used to pray for you every night,” he said softly, not looking at her. “When you were born. When your mom left. When you got sick that time in second grade.”

She didn’t speak.

“I prayed last night,” he added, eyes on his hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

The tears came without warning. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just warm and silent.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered. “Me neither. But I still pray.”

She turned her face away, wiping quickly. Her breath hitched.

Then she spoke, barely above a whisper. “I dreamed about her. Last week.”

He looked at her.

“It was just for a second. I didn’t see her face. Just her hand.”

Her voice broke.

“She held my finger.”

He didn’t say anything. Just reached for her hand and held it.

The protesters were still outside. The clock ticked past 9:00.

Inside her, the war hadn’t ended. But something cracked—just a sliver of light through the fog.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I don’t want to go in?”

He exhaled, slowly.

“Then we don’t.”

She nodded. The tears returned. She wasn’t sure what this meant for tomorrow. Or for the months ahead. But for now, she just knew she wanted to go home.

And pray.

Even if she didn’t know how.

Even if she didn’t know to whom.

Outside the window, the man with the cross had sat down now. His head bowed. Still praying.

As they pulled away, she glanced back.

And for the first time in weeks, she whispered something aloud into the quiet of the car.

“Jesus… if You’re real…”

She didn’t finish it. But maybe He heard anyway.