The Story of My Abortion
Or how I came to fall in love with my husband and start our family on solid ground
I had hoped, when I married Larry 20 years ago, that one of our children would inherit his magnificent hair, so voluptuous and appealing that just putting your fingers in it communicated a sense of abundance, of largesse. But none did. Rose has medium-thick hair to which she periodically applies a henna paste to in order to color it red. It isn’t curly, but when she came home after a year at UC Berkeley last summer, it had metamorphosed into chin-length dreadlocks that emanated off of her head like a white girl’s afro. In one or two places, she had fastened a shell. Eddy’s hair is dusty brown and lank. Michael is a blonde Arab. Not one of our children inherited Larry’s voluminous hair.
But, that other child — the one I aborted a month after beginning a sexual relationship with Larry — she might have had his hair. During the two weeks that I considered becoming her mother, I envisioned her looking Arabic, like her father, with big, liquid brown eyes and luxuriant black hair. I saw a thin frame, like Larry’s, and lean, artistic fingers. I saw her standing before me in a white dress.
Paradoxically, the abortion was what convinced me it would be safe to love Larry. He already had many of the elements I desired in a…
