Few people are privileged enough to have a friendship endure as long as my friendship with Maria. I feel very fortunate to have had her in my life all these years.

I think, perhaps, Maria is an extension of myself.

The first time I noticed Maria, I was six years old. I was sitting at the foot of my bed, crying, when suddenly I looked up and there she was. She wore a plaid jumper, exactly like the one I wore and her hair was dark, dangling in ringlets to her shoulders, like mine. When she lifted her head, I noticed she had a purple bruise swelling about her left eye, too.

Maria knew all my deepest, darkest secrets.

"I hate him, Maria!" I spat out vehemently. "I wish he would die and leave me alone!"

Maria looked at me with sad, brown eyes. She understood all too well. She, too, dabbed at a split and bleeding lip with a tissue.

As the years progressed, Maria and I grew ever closer. Thank God I had her! She was the only person who remained consistent in my otherwise insane, ever-changing existence.

"Should he be touching me like that, Maria?" I asked her one night at age thirteen. I sat on the edge of my bed in my nightgown, my arms wrapped around my shivering body. The aroma of liquor permeated the air and its taste still lingered on my lips, nauseating me. "I don't like it when he does that," I whispered. "It feels strange."

Maria regarded me sorrowfully, her cheeks burning hot, tears shimmering in her eyes. There were no words for her to say. Sighing, she turned her head away, her face hidden by her long hair.

Silently, she would listen as I spoke.

"He hurt me, Maria!" I sobbed, clutching my abdomen. "Oh God, he hurt me!"

Maria sobbed right along with me. Together, we filled the room with our shared pain and sorrow.

The day after I turned eighteen, I was married. He was a young man I met during my senior year named Samuel. Although I had only been with him for a few months, and I wasn't even certain whether or not I loved him, I accepted his marriage proposal.

Prior to the ceremony, I stood with Maria in my dressing room. We both had our hair swept off our necks, held in place by floral hairpins.

"Don't you look at me like that, Maria!" I said upon viewing the disdain on her face. "This is the only way I have of getting out of here, away from him. It's the only way I can stop him from hurting me."

Maria's doubtful expression softened slightly.

Four years later, Maria was present when I found my daughter, Melissa, crying hysterically in her bedroom.

"Missy, what's the matter?" I asked, kneeling down in front of her. "Why are you crying?"

"Grandpa!" she choked out. "He hurt me! While Grandma was in the garden, he hurt me! Oh, Mommy!"

Holding her, I ran my hands over her dark hair, speaking in a soothing tone. "It'll be all right, Missy. Grandpa won't hurt you again."

Looking over her shuddering shoulder, I met eyes with Maria. Both of us were thinking the same thing.

My father had finally gone too far.

Two days later, my father was found dead in his garden, his hedge clippers stabbed through his chest, his mouth agape, his eyes wide open and staring sightlessly up at the sky.

The day of the funeral, I turned to Maria, wearing a plain black dress, a strand of white pearls fastened around my neck.

"You did it, didn't you, Maria?" I asked.

Maria did not respond.

"You felt bad because of what my father did to my daughter, because of what he did to me."

Still, Maria did not speak.

A stray tear trickled down my cheek. At the same time, a tear ran down Maria's cheek.

"You're the best friend a person could ever wish for," I told her, my voice choked with sobs. "Nobody has ever done for me what you have done."

Stepping forward, I gently kissed her forehead. "Maria," I said, taking a step back again and when she looked at me, I said, "Thank you."

Maria nodded and smiled before turning and slowly walking away.