As the procedure came near the end, in a panic I sat trying to get out of there. I wanted to scream from the pain, from the guilt of what I was doing. The doctor yelled at me to lay down. But before I did, I looked in the gray plastic container where my dead baby was laying. He was torn to pieces, arms and legs severed and ripped from his small body. The nurse told me the body parts had to be accounted for before I could get up. A foot was still missing. A tiny foot perfectly formed was missing. The following five minutes seemed like an eternity as the images of the pain on his tender face was more than I could bare. Why had I murdered my little boy? Because I wasn’t married, because I was ashamed I was pregnant, because he told me he would never marry me. How could I kill a child? Ironically, we did get married years later. We have seven children now but to this day the shame is all mine. My husband still claims it was my decision, it was my body. It has been 19 years since I destroyed his life but those memories will never leave my heart. I named him Micah, not even my husband knows. One day I will hold Micah, the way a loving mommy should hold her baby.