Sarah and I used to be everything to each other. She was the light in my life — until that horrific night when she was raped at a party I had begged her not to attend. Everything changed from that moment on. When she found out she was pregnant, Sarah called the baby “a miracle in the midst of disaster.” But to me, it wasn’t a miracle. Every time I looked at her, all I could see was the pain — and the monster who had done that to her.

I felt guilty thinking about leaving her, but I couldn’t imagine raising a child that wasn’t mine. I drove to Ryan’s house — my best friend — hoping for some advice. As usual, he joked around, but then got serious: if I truly couldn’t handle it, I had the right to walk away. Then I called Jason — an old college friend. I told him the story as if it were hypothetical, but I’m sure he saw right through me. Jason, a conservative and pro-life supporter, told me that if I truly loved Sarah, I should stay. But deep down, I knew this was a decision I had to make on my own.

That night, I sat down with Sarah. I apologized for what she was going through and gently brought up the option of terminating the pregnancy. But Sarah — who was raised in a strict Catholic household — looked at me as if I had just suggested something monstrous. She called me selfish and said that if I couldn’t love the child, I wasn’t the partner she needed. The conversation ended in tears and silence.

The weeks that followed were an emotional rollercoaster. Some days we were loving like before, other days we fought bitterly about the baby. I couldn’t understand why she — a 19-year-old college student with financial burdens — insisted on keeping the pregnancy. Sarah had never even seemed interested in having kids before. What had changed?

One night, I did something wrong: I secretly checked her phone.

I scrolled through harmless chats with friends until I found a long message thread between her and her mother. The messages were cruel, full of blame. Her mother told her that she wouldn’t have been raped if she hadn’t dressed “like that,” and that she deserved it because she always “tempted men.” Then she said that if Sarah wanted to get into heaven, she *had* to keep the baby — as penance for her “sinful lifestyle.”

I was stunned. A storm of emotions hit me — rage, sorrow, helplessness. Sarah walked into the kitchen just as I put the phone down. I tried to act normal and pulled her into a hug, my heart heavy with everything I couldn’t say.

That night, after making her a warm dinner, I decided to tell the truth. I confessed I had read her messages. I told her I knew she didn’t really want to keep the baby. I knew about the pressure from her family, the guilt, the fear — and the unhealed trauma. Sarah burst into tears. But not from anger. Maybe, it was the first time she truly let go.

She admitted she was keeping the baby because of pressure. Because she felt blamed. Because she was threatened. But deep down, she never wanted this. The pregnancy was a living reminder of a horrible memory she just wanted to erase.

I held her tightly. I told her if she wanted to end the pregnancy, I would be there with her.

The next morning, I brought her breakfast in bed. Then I asked again — did she really mean what she said last night? Sarah hesitated, then said she was scared her parents would find out. I reminded her she didn’t live under their roof anymore — they couldn’t control her life now.

She nodded, opened her laptop, and began searching for abortion support services. Eventually, we booked an appointment. I asked if she had any feelings toward the baby. She looked me in the eye and said:

> “Every day it feels like there’s a parasite living inside me. I don’t hate it, but I can’t love it the way a mother is supposed to love her child.”

When the day came, I took her to the clinic and waited outside. When it was done, I brought her home, prepared blankets and pillows, and put on her favorite cooking show. Then her phone rang — it was her mother.

We looked at each other in silence.

Sarah answered. Her mother asked why she felt dizzy, then asked if the baby was okay. Sarah choked up and said she just needed rest. I couldn’t hear what her mom said next — I just saw Sarah hang up, her face blank.

I held her hand. And in that moment, I knew that somehow, we were going to make it through — together.