The sounds of shock and disgust rippled through the room. I could feel the glares penetrating through my torn, loose robe. No one dared speak to me, immoral, the harlot, the sinful woman, whatever other titles used instead of my name. Quiet chatter scurried from person to person, all wondering who invited me. I could hear the whispers, “How dare she come here?” … “What nerve!”… and, the one that I hated hearing above all others, “Whore!”
Most of the women refused to remember my name and prayed that their husbands didn’t either. How far removed from the days when we sat around together, hair in tight braids, playing with our dolls and dreaming of the future. Back when life was simple. I never thought I would end up here– avoiding the women I once called friends; not looking any of them in the eye out of fear that one would yell out the whispered insults. As if walking in here alone wasn’t humiliating enough.
I am getting so old. The other day, while wrapping a present, I realized I left the ribbon in the other room. I sat there for a full five minutes, whining to myself about having to get up to get it. I even considered picking up my cell phone, calling my sister, and asking her to come downstairs into my apartment and get the ribbon for me. 
