30 and 28 years old.  These are the ages that my children would be today.  

I had my first abortion at 14. My boyfriend paid for it, so my parents would not find out I was sexually active.   At 16 I had my second abortion.  This time I told my mother, because I needed money.   I had gotten pregnant by a friend and didn't tell him.  Ironically, my mother and I did not tell my own father either.   

It wasn't until I got to the clinic that I realized it was the same place I had my first abortion.   I was worried the nurse would tell my mom. She assured me that she would not. My secret was safe.  I signed the paperwork and resolved at that moment never to become pregnant again. 

The fruit of abortion is rotten. Infertility and regret.  Years plagued with darkness and broken relationships. My life was overshadowed with anger and bitterness, which bore forth a militant feminism.  Yet within feminism the secrecy only deepened. The subject quickly changed, and the idea of regret balked at. I was living the life but dying on the inside.  So was everyone around me, family and friends all scared by abortion.  The men suffered too from my choice; their lives bear witness to those choices.  It pains me I took away their choice.