I sit frozen in my chair. It's three hours passed the end of my shift. The television in the only thing illuminating the room. I sit watching videos of a family so happy in their dysfunctional world. Values and morals are passing from generation to generation. This father passed on the art of bomb making. His son would murder another young man. His wife was so brainwashed that she would cover it up to prevent another beating. This was a family.

I have vague memories of my parents as hippies. Free love; no five year old should understand that their parents had sex with strangers that they would meet at 'parties.' No five year old should be witness to how marijuana is grown. I remember my mother teaching me how to water the plants. It was my job to water the plants before supper. I never thought that it was wrong; I was too young to question the authority of the two people I was supposed to love and respect.

I learned about drugs in fifth grade. I was still watering the plants before supper. It was a small garden; probably only enough for the two of them. I remember shaking as I stood at the payphone. I was ten years old. I remember calling the police. I told their secret. I wasn't supposed to tell their secret. They told me that the plants were special. Someday I would understand how 'special' their plants were. I went to my friend's house after school; the police came for me three hours later.

I was playing with Barbie dolls. My mother wouldn't let me have those in the house. She always said that they represented a sexuality that was unrealistic. I wanted so badly to be Barbie doll. Barbie had no problems. She had an endless closet of clothes, three cars, a dream house, and a doting boyfriend that supported her endless careers. I wanted so badly to fall into Barbie's reality.

My father could never hold down a job. He worked so many different jobs; short order cook, janitor, and the manager of a fast food restaurant. I knew that we were poor. There was a sharp class distinction even in first grade. I remember the other girls making fun of my tattered clothes and worn sandals. I remember the boys never chased me. It was hard to be aware of your place in the world at such a young age; you're helpless to change your circumstances.

I was in foster care for six months. I was in a home with a young couple. Tom worked as a police officer. He let me sit in the driver's seat of his squad car. Karen became a stay at home mom the minute I set foot in their house. She baked cookies for me after school. I had never had a homemade cookie before. I felt bad that I didn't miss my parents. I was supposed to miss my parents.

I became a better student. Karen and Tom praised every one of my little triumphs. When I won the school spelling bee, they took me out for pizza. When I needed a science fair project, the three of us made a volcano. We went out for seafood that night. We laid a blanket out on the lawn. Karen told me about the constellations. I wanted to be their child.

I asked once why they didn't have children. Karen cried. Tom said that God just wasn't on their side. I told them that I wished I was their child. Karen said that she loved me like a daughter. Tom said that he wished I could be theirs. Two weeks later, child services came to bring me back to my parents and their dirty little home. I cried for Karen and Tom. I hoped that they cried for me.

My parents decided to open a bed and breakfast. They worked hard. I never smelt marijuana in the house again. All the bad memories were covered by fresh coats of paint; it made the dirty house into a majestic Victorian. My mom cooked. She had never cooked for me before. I made cookies; I made Karen's cookies . . . I had the recipe memorized.

I was fifteen. My parents went out on the town for the night. I was left to fulfill the requests of the two couples staying at the B and B. I was reading my science text. I was in one of the sitting areas. He came up behind me . . . told me that I was a very pretty girl. He raped me in my own home. I sat in the shower for hours trying to wash him off of me. I told my mother; she said that I knew I wasn't supposed to be studying in the public areas. Nothing more was ever said.

Parents are funny things; you're supposed to love them and respect them without questioning. In turn, they are supposed to love and protect you. Grissom says it is biological. I'm not so sure. The only people that loved me that much didn't share my DNA.

I still send Christmas cards. Karen got pregnant shortly after I left. There were so many times I wanted to go back to them, but they got their child. There was no place in the world for a child that wasn't wanted. My parents didn't pretend that they wanted a baby girl when they were both still teenagers. They only married because my maternal grandfather forced them to. I knew that I wasn't wanted.

At least that boy got to know that his father loved him; even if it was the most dysfunctional love possible.

"Sara, it's time to go. I heard about the bomb . . . why would you do something so stupid?" Nick asked. I was so engrossed in the movies that I couldn't think of a clever lie.

"Have you ever felt worthless?" I asked. Nick turned off the television. It brought me back to reality. I was uncomfortable in my reality; I was just as uncomfortable in my memories.

"Sara, what's this about?" he asked. Nick rested a hand on my thigh.

"Do you want this baby?" I asked solemnly.

"Of course I want this baby, Sara," Nick replied irritated that I would even ask.

"We were both drunk. What do we tell him when he's older?" I asked.

"I don't know. I thought we agreed to take things slow. Sara, I'm not going anywhere," Nick replied. I knew he wouldn't go anywhere. Nick was a good guy; he was dependable.

I was driving home from his townhouse when I was pulled over. We went there after having breakfast with Warrick. I don't know what possessed me to take Nick up on his offer for coffee. He said that I needed to unwind after the rape case. We ended up having whiskey instead of coffee. I ended up in bed with him. I woke before he did. I would have done anything to escape his townhouse. There was still enough alcohol in my body to make me feel woozy; I shouldn't have gone anywhere. I snuck out without waking him. I was hoping that we would both forget about the morning before we were back on shift. Two friends had crossed a boundary that would make everything different from that day forward.

Three weeks later, I missed my period. All my fears were realized. I could barely take care of myself . . . let alone a child. I sat alone in a doctor's office waiting for the news. I cried when the doctor told me that I was pregnant. I called in sick before I called Nick. I wasn't sure if I could face him at work. I took the coward's way out. He took the night off and wound up on my doorstep.

I didn't know what to say to him. I had spent hours thinking about my family; the role models that I had. I was afraid to becoming my parents. Two people living together with a child that they didn't want. He said that it was alright. We would figure things out as they come up. I didn't want this child to be unwanted. I didn't want this child to carry the same burdens I carry.

"I'm not having the baby," I said without thinking.

"Sara, can't we go somewhere to talk about this?" Nick asked. He was so patient with me. I wasn't showing yet; I could make this go away before everyone knew. I wasn't sure if I was comfortable taking the life of another; I wasn't sure if I could give up my best friend's baby.

"Nick, you have no idea what it's like not to be wanted," I replied bitterly. I could feel the tears running down my face. Not being wanted was the story of my life; Hank, Grissom.

"Let's not talk about this here," Nick said as he handed me tissues.

We wound up at his townhouse. I was uncomfortable there; there were too many bad memories. He was quiet. He didn't want to be the one to have to talk first. I didn't want to be the one to have to rationalize my brash decision.

"My parent didn't want me; I spent six months in foster care. I was raped in my own home by some vacationing yuppie that my parents welcomed into my home," I said quickly. His expression changed. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could never understand why he let himself feel so much; feeling hurt way too much.

"I don't know how to be a mother," I whispered.

"You wouldn't have to do this alone," Nick weakly offered.

"I can't have a baby that's not wanted . . . it's not fair to him," I replied.

"It's not fair to him," Nick replied, "I'm sorry, Sara. If it meant that we could still be friends, I would do anything to take back that night."

"I know," I replied. I couldn't even look at him.

"That night . . . I was going to ask you to go out to dinner with me some night," Nick said.

"I was going to let you kiss me good night," I replied, "The fates were against that."

"Let me know what you decide," Nick replied.

"Yeh, I'll call you," I replied as I stood up and headed for the door.

"Sara, would you go out to supper with me sometime?" Nick asked as I was half way out the door.

"I don't know if I can," I replied. I closed the door gently behind me. I drove home in silence. I needed to be alone with my thoughts; even if my thoughts sickened me.

My world would come crashing down around me three weeks later. I'll never forget the night. I was working in trace evidence. I was standing up to get a good look at the contents of the vacuum bag that I had confiscated from a crime scene. I remember the sharp pain. I remember feeling light headed. I remember the warmth between my legs. I sat on the floor of the bathroom sobbing for an hour before anyone thought to look for me.

Greg drove me to the hospital without asking any questions. He called Grissom and said that I had gotten sick; I needed to go to the emergency room so he drove me. I let Greg wait in the examination room with me. I already knew that I had miscarried. I didn't need a doctor to confirm the obvious. Greg asked how far along I was . . . ten weeks. I struggled with this decision for six weeks and this was how it would end. Greg said that he was sorry. Greg asked if there was anyone that he should call. I said it could be taken care of later.

The doctor couldn't give me answers. He reassured me that I wasn't my fault. He asked Greg to take me home . . . Greg should take his wife home to rest. The doctor told me not to work for a few days. He wrote up some form for me to give to Grissom. Greg needed to provide him with all the information; all the words were caught in my throat or racing through my mind.

Greg took my back to the lab so I could get my things. Night shift was ending when we got there. Greg said I looked pale. I wobbled and swayed as I walked. I needed to cling to him to keep myself from falling to the ground. Grissom asked what happened; there was a sizable amount of blood in the bathroom. He asked to see my wrists. He made me remove my watch and roll up my sleeves. Grissom thought that I had tried to commit suicide. I told him that I had just miscarried. He told me to take some time off; he didn't spare another word for me.

Greg told me that it would be okay. He would drive me home. He never asked who the father was; I knew the question was on the tip of his tongue. Greg was so good to me. I gathered my things.

We bumped into Nick, Warrick and Catherine as we were trying to escape the building. I still clung to Greg . . . I was feeling fainter. The way they looked at me; Grissom obviously had made it clear that he thought I had attempted suicide in the bathroom at the crime lab. Good news always circulates quickly.

They couldn't look me in the eye. They barely made it out of the way when I doubled over and threw up in the parking lot. Greg told them that I had lost a lot of blood . . . that I was weak. He told them that I didn't try to commit suicide. I showed them my wrists. They didn't understand. Catherine's critical eye surveyed my body. Warrick and Nick walked away. I began to cry again. I whispered to Catherine that I had just lost my baby. I had just lost the one thing that was really mine. Greg drove me home.

I stayed in my apartment for three weeks. I spent most of my time curled up in bed. Only Greg stopped by. Grissom called several times saying that he put me on a leave of absence; I needed to call him. I called Nick once; he never called me back. I tried to explain that the rumors weren't true. I said that I wished I would have gone out for supper with him some night.

I finished the bottle of whiskey. I rested my head against the armrest of my couch. I closed my eyes. I always knew what it felt like to be unwanted.