I was 22, working and living in Manhattan. I used an IUD for birth control, but kept getting infections so my doctor took it out and gave me a prescription for a diaphragm. I had close ties to my college friends back in Ohio, including a man I’d been in love with.

Though I knew our relationship would not last, because he was basically a horndog. But I had heard through the grapevine he had finally met a woman, and it looked like they would last. During a visit back to Ohio, he talked me into “one last time.” I hadn’t expected it; I hadn’t even brought my diaphragm. I went back to Manhattan and a few weeks later realized I was pregnant.

I was pretty fucked up then; I was living a fast life, I was working too much, and I was temporarily homeless, couch-surfing at friends’ places. I knew I couldn’t care for a baby. I didn’t want to go home to my family. I went to the Planned Parenthood on 14th Street and had an abortion. I was not very far along; it was fast and not very painful and the recovery was easy.

I never told my old boyfriend. I knew I didn’t want to be with him; I knew I didn’t love him anymore and he didn’t love me. I thought that even telling him would keep me more connected to him than I wanted to, and would also maybe screw up his new relationship. I had met his new girlfriend and liked her and hoped, like all our friends, that this was the right thing for him (they stayed together until her death, 25 years later). I never regretted that abortion.

I got my shit together eventually, did well in my career, and in my 30s I got married and had a beautiful son.