The man carefully looks around, making certain no one is watching, and rising to his feet, casually walks by your daughter’s table, slipping a “roofie” into her drink. He pretends to rifle his pockets, and proceeds back to his table.
Your daughter and her friends collapse at the table, giggling and out of breath. She takes a gulp of her drink, and she and her friends sit, sipping and chatting. As a song they all love blares out over the speakers, your daughter begins to feel a bit lightheaded. She urges her friends to go dance, she’s going to grab some water. She tries to stand, but stumbles. The man on his phone glances her way, and standing, walks over to her. Are you alright, he asks, and she shakes her head, mumbling something about needing air. The man says into his phone “There’s a girl here, I think she’s sick. Honey, I’m just going to get her outside, and make sure she’s okay. I’ll be home as fast as I can. I love you too”, and ends his pretend conversation. Wrapping his arm around your daughter, he assures her that it’s all going to be okay, he’s an EMT and sees this sort of thing a lot.
Five a.m. The sun barely risen in the sky. Your daughter awakens in a park, hidden behind foliage. She is dazed, has a splitting headache, and has no idea how she wound up in a park. She tries to sit up, but her head spins and she vomits. She realizes her skirt is missing, she is nude from the waist down, and her thighs are spotted with blood. Her skirt is hanging off a branch, but her underwear is nowhere to be found. She can’t remember anything. She grabs the skirt and gets to her feet. Dressing herself as best as she can, she sees her purse underneath a bush. Opening it, she realizes nothing is missing, including her money. She walks, weaving at first, out onto the street and hails a cab to go home. She racks her brain, trying to remember the events of the night before, but there is a blank space where that memory should be. What the hell happened to me, she wonders as the cab deposits her in front of her apartment.
Later that morning, she realizes she must have been raped. But she was drinking, and she can’t remember anything, so she decides not to go to the police, or tell you about it. She’s embarrassed and confused, but she knows that if she tells anyone, odds are, no one will believe her. She goes on with her life.
Six weeks later, she realizes that her period is late. Since she was a virgin before that night six weeks ago, she wonders if she might be pregnant. Again, she doesn’t call you, her father, or her mother, because she knows how you feel about unwed mothers. Your daughter walks 3 blocks down to the drug store and purchases a pregnancy test, with cash, because her credit card bills still come to your house. All the way back to the apartment, she is praying please God no, please God no.
Ripping open the box, she reads the instructions four times, hand shaking-she wants no mistakes. She sits down on the toilet, and as tears begin to stream down her face, she takes the test. She places the stick on a flat, stable surface, and begins the longest wait of her life. She has to leave the bathroom, because she feels as if she is going to faint. Finally, she checks her watch. Time’s up. She shuffles back into the bathroom, afraid and feeling so alone. The stick says “pregnant”. Pregnant. She slides down onto the floor, curls up into a ball and sobs.
Now what, Joe Conservative? Do you tell her it’s a gift from God? Oh, she can give it up for adoption, right? Of course, because couples looking to adopt never have a problem seeing a blank section on the birth parent information sheet where it says “father.” That never raises red flags. And no couple looking to adopt has any knowledge of the possibility that violent, sexual behavior may be genetic. Of course not. In your world, Joe Conservative, the fact that your daughter is pregnant is much more important than the fact that your daughter was raped.