Chapter 183

LILY POV

I was sitting on Emily’s bed, legs crossed, the phone on speaker between the two of us. My hands were shaking so badly that I had to rest the phone on the pillow so I wouldn’t drop it. Emily was beside me, just as nervous as I was, biting her thumbnail while staring fixedly at the screen.

I had made my decision.

After days of crying, of panic, of caressing my belly without knowing what I felt, I decided. I couldn’t carry this alone anymore. I couldn’t imagine having the baby knowing everything that was happening — Ashley pregnant with Samuel, Samantha knowing about us, my dad freaking out at just the possibility. I needed to end this before it was too late.

Emily squeezed my hand. Her eyes were full of concern.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

I nodded, even though my stomach was churning.

“I am.”

I dialed the number for Planned Parenthood of Illinois — Elizabeth Ridge, Near North. The phone rang twice before a nearly robotic, calm, and professional voice answered:

“Planned Parenthood Illinois, Elizabeth Ridge. Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

I took a deep breath, my voice coming out shaky.

“Hi… I’d like to schedule an appointment for… an abortion.”

There was a small pause. Then the attendant continued, kind but direct:

“Understood. Before we proceed, is it safe to leave a voicemail or send text messages to this number?”

The question hit me like a punch. For a teenager hiding everything from her father, that was the most dangerous question of all. My heart raced. If they left any message and my dad saw it…

I looked at Emily. She nodded, encouraging me.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice almost disappearing. “It’s safe.”

“Great. What was the first day of your last menstrual period?”

I gave her the date. The attendant quickly did the math.

“That puts you at approximately ten weeks gestation. You’re still within the limit for a medication abortion. Now we need to confirm your age.”

I closed my eyes.

“Sixteen years old.”

“Understood. In Illinois, you don’t need parental permission for the procedure. Your appointment is completely confidential. No one will be notified without your express authorization.”

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Thank you.”

The attendant continued explaining the process. I listened to everything in a blur — mandatory counseling, options, risks. Then came the part I feared most:

“The cost for a medication abortion is $600.”

I was stunned. Six hundred dollars. The word seemed to echo in the room. Emily squeezed my hand tighter.

“Do you have health insurance?” the attendant asked.

“I have my parents’ insurance, but I can’t use it for obvious reasons,” I answered, my voice failing.

“Understood. We have financial assistance options. I can mention the Chicago Abortion Fund, which helps with costs for people in your situation. Would you like more information?”

“I… I’ll think about it,” I murmured.

The attendant continued, her tone still professional but with a subtle urgency:

“Just to note: you are at the limit for medication abortion. If you delay confirmation, a surgical procedure may be necessary, which is a bit more expensive and requires someone to take you home afterward.”

I thanked her and hung up the phone with ice-cold hands.

The room fell into absolute silence.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice low:

“Six hundred dollars…”

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears already slipping from the corners of my eyes.

“I don’t have anywhere near that, Emily. At most fifty dollars saved. How am I going to get six hundred dollars without my parents finding out?”

Emily stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

“We can try the assistance fund she mentioned. Or… I can lend it to you.”

I turned to face her, surprised.

“A loan? Where would you get that kind of money from?”

Emily looked down, seeming embarrassed.

“John and I have been saving for a while. So I can visit him in Paris during the holidays. We already have almost eight hundred saved.”

I sat up on the bed, shaking my head.

“No. I can’t accept that, Emily. That money is for you two. For you to see John. I can’t take that from you.”

Emily held my hands, her eyes watery.

“Lily, you’re my best friend. I love you like a sister. If you need this money now, so you don’t have to go through this alone, I’ll lend it to you. John will understand. I’ll explain it to him.”

The tears fell harder down my face.

“I don’t know what to do… I keep thinking that if I do this, I’ll be abandoning the baby just like my mother did with me. But at the same time… how am I going to raise a child now? At sixteen? With Samuel in Paris? With Ashley also pregnant with his baby? My dad would kick me out of the house if he found out.”

Emily pulled me into a tight hug.

“You don’t have to decide today. But time is running out. If you go past eleven weeks, the medication may no longer be an option.”

I cried on her shoulder, my whole body shaking.

Six hundred dollars.

A decision that would change my life forever.

And a secret I still didn’t know if I could carry much longer.

The subway swayed gently as I held onto the cold bar above my head. My fingers were freezing, even inside my coat. I stared at the dirty floor of the car, trying not to think about anything, but my mind kept replaying the plan Emily and I had made.

“It’s an important science project. It’ll take all day. We’re doing it at her house because there’s more space and materials. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be back at night.”

It was a simple, perfect lie. Doug had believed it. So had Samantha. They even seemed proud that I was dedicating myself to my studies. If only they knew where I was really going…

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of metal, sweat, and old coffee from the subway turned my stomach. Or maybe it was just the nerves. Or the baby. I couldn’t tell anymore.

I was going to have an abortion.

Ten weeks. Ten weeks carrying a life that Samuel had left inside me before he left for Paris, before he destroyed me by the lake, before everything turned into a nightmare.

When I got off at the Near North station, the cold Chicago air hit me like a slap. I walked the few blocks to the clinic with my hands shoved into my coat pockets, the hood covering part of my face. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

There were protesters. They stood behind police barriers, holding signs with pictures of fetuses and aggressive slogans. Some were shouting. “Murderers!” “God will send you to hell!”

I kept my head down and walked in quickly.

Two security doors. Bulletproof glass. The interior was clean, modern, almost welcoming — light walls, plants, comfortable chairs. But the tension in the air was palpable. In the waiting room, I saw women of different ages. Some looked like they had traveled for hours — Southern accents, simple clothes, tired eyes. Kentucky, Missouri… states where abortion was practically impossible. For them, it was a clandestine journey. For me, just a subway ride. And yet, I felt like the most terrified person in the world.

I checked in. Handed over my ID. The receptionist was kind but professional. I was given a tablet to fill out a long form: medical history, surgeries, allergies, medications… and then the safety questions: “Is anyone forcing you to be here today?” “Do you feel safe at home?” “Does anyone know you’re here?”

I answered everything honestly. No one was forcing me. But I didn’t feel safe either.

A nurse called me. Urine pregnancy test. Finger prick to check iron and blood type (Rh factor). Then the ultrasound.

The technician was calm and respectful.

“Do you want to see the image? Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”

I hesitated for a second that felt eternal.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice hoarse.

The screen lit up. And there it was.

A small pulsing shape. A heart beating fast and strong. The technician measured it. Ten weeks and two days. I saw the outlines. I saw the movement. I heard the tiny, rapid heartbeat.

Something inside me broke.

I felt an overwhelming mix of emotions: love, fear, guilt, tenderness, panic. Tears streamed down my face and I couldn’t stop them. The technician stayed silent, respecting the moment. I looked at that image and, for the first time, truly felt there was a life there. A life that Samuel and I had created on the night I believed he loved me.

I couldn’t look away. It was real. It was my baby. Our baby. Samuel’s and mine. And I was there to… end it.

Doubt hit me like a wave.

Did I want this? Could I do this? Could I have an abortion now, knowing that little heart was beating?

The health educator received me in a small, welcoming room. We sat down. She was kind and patient. She explained the methods, the risks, and the aftercare again. She asked if I was sure. She asked if anyone was pressuring me. When she saw I was crying, she paused everything.

“Lily, we don’t have to do this today. We can reschedule. Or you can choose not to do it. The decision is always yours.”

I cried more. I told her pieces of the story — without names, without details. I told her the father was far away. That my family didn’t know. That I was scared. She listened without judgment.

Then I was sent to the doctor.

He was direct but human. He reviewed my history, explained the risks (minimal, but real). He said I was still within the limit for medication abortion. He took out the first pill and placed it in front of me.

“You take this one here, in front of me. The second one at home, 24 to 48 hours later.”

I picked up the pill in my hand. It was small. Innocent-looking. Capable of changing everything.

That’s when the doctor’s phone rang.

He excused himself and answered. His voice changed completely — it became warm and affectionate.

“Hi, my love! How was the test today?”

It was his daughter. They talked about school, about a dog that had made a mess, about dinner. The doctor laughed softly. My eyes scanned the office. There were family photos everywhere. His smiling wife. His three daughters at different stages of life. A photo of him holding a newborn baby. A whole lifetime of memories.

I imagined.

I imagined what it would be like to have a family. To have a baby. To see Samuel holding our child. To see my dad holding his grandchild. To have something of my own.

The pill felt like lead in my hand.

I looked at the pill in my hand.

I could have this one day. I could have photos with my child. I could hear him call me mom. Or I could take that pill and never know what it would be like.

The doctor ended the call with an “I love you, sweetheart. See you tonight.”

He turned back to me, still smiling.

“Sorry. My youngest daughter. She’s a senior in high school.”

The doctor sat down again.

“Have you taken it?”

Tears streamed down my face.

“Yes…” I whispered.

The doctor handed me the second box with detailed instructions: when to take it, what to expect, when to seek help. I heard everything in a blur.

I left the clinic with the box in my bag, my whole body trembling. As I rode the subway home, silent tears slid down my face. I caressed my belly under my coat, feeling a devastating mix of relief and terror.

I didn’t know if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Or if I had just saved the only good thing I still had left inside me.