When he was sixteen and happily pro-choice his mother turned to him:
"I had the abortion very late," she said.
I listened (in silence, in horror, in intense hate) as my mother explained how she had not planned for this pregnancy, how my father and her were not ready for it, how my nine months in her body had rendered her tired and without energy. She explained all of it. It was her decision, she said. My father had left it up to her. "Are you going to say anything?" she asked, and for some reason her question seemed entirely out of place.
I felt like crying but could not. I felt like leaving but could not. I felt like hitting her but did not. Did she say she was tired? Can you do that because you're tired? "Did you say you were tired?" I asked finally. "Tired? You did this because you were tired?"