She'd have preferred the electric chair. The clinic's lobby was a stale tan color. It was April, and there was a Christmas movie on TV for Christ's sake.

Her name was called, and she went to sign the form, pay the co-pay, and was assured by the lady at the desk that this was indeed, confidential. She was asked if the man next to her was the father, or her boyfriend, or something. She lied and said no. He looked upset but ultimately should have been glad that she said no, he'd probably end up getting arrested for rape, anyway.

The 4:30 appointment made her late for play practice; she woke up crying, with a heart monitor attached to a finger on her left hand. She resented the doctor for having told her that he had daughters just her age; probably daughters that didn't get pregnant at 16. Daughters that didn't have abortions because their father was an abortion doctor.

Controversial or Catholic or not, she couldn't deal with the burden and whatever else went with being a teen mom. That April day would forever be remembered; even the Pearl Jam song that played on the radio on the drive there. Even what she had for dinner. She'd never be the same again.