I Had an Abortion

And that terrible secret was killing our marriage.
I Had an Abortion

You're late. Again," I said as I glared at my husband, Art.

As I lay in bed one night after seeing our third counselor, I was overwhelmed by hopelessness. No one seemed able to help us—not even God.

"I'm sorry. Traffic was a nightmare."

Not the traffic excuse again, I fumed as I filled Art's plate and slapped it onto the table. We'd been married only two months, but the honeymoon phase was definitely over—in fact, it had never existed.

I forced myself to eat despite the tension crackling between us. As Art took a bite, I was sure I saw an odd expression cross his face.

"What's wrong?" I demanded.

He frowned. "Nothing!"

"You made a funny face. You don't like it, do you? You hate my cooking!" And you hate me, I mentally added.

Art slammed down his fork. "What is wrong with you? You're behaving like a nutcase! You overreact to everything, and it's driving me crazy!"

His words cut me to the bone. "If you were a better husband and loved me more, I wouldn't be so emotional!" I lashed out in retaliation.

We both stormed from the table, leaving the food to grow as cold as the feelings between us.

I don't love him anymore, I thought later as I lay stiffly beside him in bed. I don't even like him. What's happened to us?

But I knew.

A terrible choice

Growing up in a broken home, I'd been rejected by my biological father, who constantly told me he'd never wanted children. I just longed to be loved and accepted.

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