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I was 17 years old with a long-term boyfriend when I found out I was pregnant. Up until then I had been told it was not yet a baby until much later in the pregnancy, and I believed it—although something didn’t sit right with me about that story. I went ahead and had an abortion and never once considered going through with the pregnancy. But once it was over, I immediately knew what I had really done and had a very, very deep sorrow that has never gone away. That was 30 years ago. For some reason, I always thought of that baby as a baby boy and for about 18 years I counted how old he would’ve been on each birthday if I would have had the courage to allow him to live. I knew his approximate birthday because I had been given a “due date” at the clinic. I still think about that date every year. I went on to have three boys who are the joy of my life, but in my heart I know there would have been, and should have been, four. I still apologize to him every time I pray and tell him I can’t wait to meet him in the next life, that his mother loves him deeply, that he is precious, and that I can never apologize enough for my choice. My heart will always be broken for my first child that wasn’t given the chance to live. And I’ll never forgive myself.

Age: 47
Date: April 26, 2024