I met my ex-girlfriend in 1986.  We were sexually active from the beginning of our relationship.  We had no plans to have children – ever – and we always used contraception.  But one time the contraception failed, and she was suddenly pregnant.  Even though we were both atheists, my girlfriend and I knew intuitively that our child was really alive, but we didn't want to be burdened with a baby.  We considered placing our child for adoption as an alternative to abortion, but maternal health concerns – whether well-founded or not – caused us to choose abortion.  We acted quickly, so our child wouldn't reach the three-months-gestation threshold.  For some reason, we figured if we could get the abortion done within those first three months, it wouldn’t be quite so bad somehow, not really such a big deal.

The abortion took place at a private abortuary in Toronto.  We went there, I paid money, and I sat in the waiting room. Then my girlfriend came out, and we left.  We didn't find out if our aborted child was a boy or a girl.  I have no recollection of what took place between my girlfriend and me that day; I don’t remember talking about what had happened or what either of us was feeling.  I don’t remember any discussion at all, or even the date of the abortion, or the season – not even the exact year that the abortion took place.  When I think about it now, there is an unreality – a detachment – about the whole experience.  Yet the effects on my life are still unfolding and will for years to come.

There is one thing, though, that I’ve never forgotten.  One night, sometime shortly after the abortion, I recall walking into the lunch room at my place of work.  I was on the overnight shift, so I was completely alone at my work station and when I walked into the lunch room.  As I entered, I remember shedding a single tear for our dead child.  Just one, single tear. This memory remains.

In a way that I can't fully describe, my girlfriend and I became estranged after the abortion.  There was a sense that something was different.  I couldn’t put my finger on it.  Something that had been living in our relationship -- perhaps faith in each other, or hope for our future -- was gone, and could never come back.  Our relationship ended within a couple of years, and we parted ways with much bitterness.

Then, many years later, after I had gotten married and become a Catholic, the reality of being a father hit me and wouldn't go away.  So I started attending the Second Chance Post-Abortion Healing Ministry in Toronto.  I accepted responsibility for the killing of my child, and – very importantly – I named my child.  With the help of a priest, I chose the name “Chris.” because my child's sex wasn’t revealed by the abortionist, only God knows.  Second Chance showed me that it's natural to grieve for our aborted sons and daughters, to accept our parenthood of them, and to love these children as much as we love our born children.  And it's natural and right to accept their love for us; they remain a part of our lives – forever.  Now I find an overwhelming sense of joy and delight when I’m around children: I see in these little boys and girls a fulfillment of God’s word “let there be”; it is an eternal word, and God never stops saying it.  I believe this new awe and wonder I feel around children is a sign of healing.

And there’s another sign of God’s healing, too: Years after we broke up, I was unexpectedly contacted by my ex-girlfriend, Chris' mother.  She asked forgiveness for the abortion and told me that she had become a Christian.  I, too, asked forgiveness and told her that I – also – had become a Christian: a Catholic.  That was a miracle: two atheists finding Jesus years after breaking up and going their separate ways.  And then it occurred to me that our aborted child, Chris, had been praying for us, all along ... This gift from God, received through Chris’ love, is one of the reasons I am Silent No More.