He first loved us.

Everyone wants to change her, but does anyone love her?

She passes by their front porch day after day, towards the convenience store, or headed home with no utilities and a stench that keeps unwanted guests away. She sleeps on a mattress, on the floor, that, thankfully, hasn't been used as a bathroom by the dog yet. She lives here with her boyfriend.

And they want her to live somewhere else; she needs a change.

After all, the baby is coming. Don't they have to think about the baby? The innocence. Yes, they've got to get her in another house.

And so they do.

But before long, she's back to her old house, says it just wasn't what she wanted. But the baby, there's still the baby. She's growing out of her clothes; yes, she needs new clothing, or better yet, they'll clean out their closets for the gently used items that have hardly been worn before.

Yes, let's get her cleaned up; she needs a change.

But she doesn't wear the clothes; they're not her taste. She's happpier with what she's already got, with what she already knows. Thanks, but no thanks.

She's gone; she just walked out. She had a fight with the father of her child and left the only person who cares for her unborn baby, someone who might even care more than she does. Where did she go, they ask. She's over on Millford Station, that's where she always goes.

He's so tired of this; with another man's dime, he goes to buy a drink to drown out his anguish of being left again (so many times that he stopped counting).

But they know she'll be back; she always comes back. And this time, they might not be waiting around to help. They just might be finished with this. They can only reach out so much. She has to choose to respond.

You want to change her, but have you loved her?