A day like any other, I feel drained, stained, and emotionless, but I have no choice but to face the day. The sunlight penetrating through the window and the bird songs are not improving the mood either. Urg! I feel disgusted by their singing. I throw the blanket over and roll out of bed. I have not slept well in the last six years; my eyes and headache are a sellout anyway. I wish I had someone to share my predicaments with, but who would want to be with such a broken soul.

I reach for my phone and check the calendar; I have a flight to Chicago in two hours! How could I forget, this is the most important appointment of my entire life. I expect the contents of the reminder to cheer me up, but I feel heartbroken and guilty as never before. Anyways, there is nothing I can do about it. I begin getting to leave; time is not on my side.

Two hours later, I’m on a flight bound for Chicago in the next six hours, then head to Loyola University Medical Centre, where I will undergo in vitro fertilization (IVF). Am I making the right choice? Am I ready? Do I need it? Shouldn’t I persevere the punishment and move on? Millions of questions race through my mind. However, before I could answer any, the events from over 15 years ago clouded my mind.

I try to read No More Lies by Linda J. Cole, but I seem to be reading the same phrase over again. I tell myself that this hard choice is all my fault, and I have to deal with it for the longest time. What if it’s not? What really happened? Let me tell thousands of people about my abortions. In case you are wondering, it’s plural, abortions; I have had four.

The initial abortion was when I was 16; the others I was married to the love of my life. For three of these, I made a choice. In one case, my husband made a choice for me. But the initial one was due to unavoidable circumstances. What made you take away an innocent child’s life? You may ask.

I was sixteen, young, ripe, and beautiful, living in a normal neighborhood. It was a few days after my sweet sixteen, I was going home from the Miller’s mansion, where I worked as a maid. As always, I trekked home alone. However, I had to change from my usual work uniform so that my parents would not know what I did after school. My mother believed I used to study at Amanda’s place, a close friend. But seeing how my parents were struggling to take care of my four siblings and me, I had to step up. On this day, I was happy since I had received my salary and was looking forward to surprising my parents and siblings and letting go of my working secret.

However, this was not the case (spoiler, sorry). As I was closing home, I saw my dad’s boss, a middle-aged man with a funny-looking mustache. My dad used to work in a clothing factory as a casual laborer. “Well, hello, Miss Lila Grace,” he said with a grin. I replied and continued walking. “I am looking for your father; the factory is letting go of some of the workers, including your dad; I wonder how you are going to survive,” he said. “You can save him, though, you sumptuous piece of meat.” I knew that these words were not a comforting message but a threat and abuse. “Did you hear me, I’m firing him tomorrow,” he shouted.