When I was sixteen, I discovered I was pregnant by Harry Clarke, the boy I loved dearly. We had been dating for a year after meeting in our Year 10 class, and the news of the pregnancy terrified us, so we kept it hidden from our parents. When my mother, Mrs. Bennett, finally learned of it, she was furious.
Our family was regarded as a model household in a small town in Kent. I was an only child and had always excelled at school. Because Harry and I were both underage, the final decision fell to our parents.
Both of us were top students, and our parents dreamed that we would secure places at good universities and build respectable careers. A baby, they feared, would shatter those plans.
Consequently, my mother forced me to have an abortion. It was still legal, and the procedure went smoothly.
Afterward Harry and I tried to return to normal life. We kept seeing each other, finished our GCSEs, went on to university, and a year later we married with my parents reluctant blessing. Then, once again, I became pregnant, and we were overjoyed.
Unfortunately, in the sixth month I began to bleed heavily. My son was born tiny, weighing only a pound and a half. Three hours after his birth he died.
Complications followed. Doctors could not stop the bleeding and had to remove my uterus. I would never be able to bear children again. My mother visited me in the hospital, apologising for the abortion she had forced years before, but her words did little to ease the hurt.
The past cannot be undone, nor can the mistakes we made be repaired. I will never be a mother, and the thought of raising a family without children feels impossible. I do not know whether Harry and I will be able to keep our marriage intact and find happiness, for children are often seen as the heart of a normal family.
The experience taught me that choices made in fear can leave lasting scars, and that compassion and honesty are far more powerful than control.
