When I was 48 years old, married for more than 20 years and the father of two teenage boys, my wife and I discovered we were having another child. At first it was a shock, but soon I was bragging about becoming a new father at my age. But when I took my wife for a normal prenatal checkup later in the pregnancy, the doctor did a test that indicated our baby would have Down syndrome. The doctor suggested abortion and told us we had to decide that day, as the cutoff for legal abortion was imminent.

We were heartbroken at the news and in turmoil over what to do. My wife left the decision to me, and I made the choice to abort our child. As my wife lay on a hospital bed, I sat beside her, holding her hand. The doctor asked if we were sure and I said yes. Then he inserted a long needle into my wife’s huge belly, giving our baby a shot that would stop his heart. Once they were sure he had died, they induced labor and my wife gave birth to our dead son. The nurse asked if I wanted to hold him so I took him into my arms. He filled the space from my hand to my elbow, a fully formed baby boy.

I cried all night in torment. How could I have asked the doctor to end his life? In the morning, a nurse came to take him away and said we had to name him and arrange for a burial because his was a late-term abortion. We took him to a funeral home in our neighborhood in a white wooden box that looked like a tiny casket. And that’s when the lying began. I could not tell anyone what I had done. Not my parents or siblings, not my friends. Not even my sons.

After the burial, I never mentioned him again. I never even asked my wife how she was because I couldn’t bear her pain on top of the crushing weight of my own. We remained a family for a few years, but as we realized that our guilt had erased our love, we divorced. I felt God was punishing me for what I had done, and I accepted this punishment for many years. When the abortion was 10 years in the past, I tried praying on my own and then, tearfully, prayed with a pastor. I did not feel forgiven. I searched for somewhere to turn for help and found Rachel’s Vineyard. I contacted my local representative but it took a year before I had the courage to attend a retreat. The Rachel’s Vineyard liaison never gave up on me. Finally, I attended a weekend retreat.

For the first time, I was in the company of others who knew how I felt. I could finally let go of this secret. Through the sharing and instruction that takes place throughout the weekend, I found – on the last day – that healing is possible and that God’s grace includes forgiveness, even for me. That weekend changed my life and I will be forever thankful. My story is no more traumatic than any other story of a life tragically ended by abortion, but it has left me convinced that more has to be done to help parents facing a diagnosis that might scare them before they choose a path that will change their lives forever. More has to be done to let people know healing is available. I held my son. I know his face and the contours of his body. I will never forget you, my child, and for your sake, I will be silent no more.