Pregnant at 28 Weeks: My Shocking Discovery

I had always believed I couldn’t get pregnant. Irregular cycles had been my reality for as long as I could remember, and after more than a decade of unprotected sex, pregnancy seemed impossible. But life had other plans.

It started subtly—fluttering movements in my lower abdomen, like a gentle nudge from within. Then came the dream. I saw a baby boy in a crib, with me and my partner watching over him. He looked up at us, pressed his tiny finger to his lips, and shushed us in the most endearing way. I woke up unsettled but curious. Something felt different.

I bought pregnancy tests that day. Four of them. Each one confirmed the unthinkable—I was pregnant. Shock hit me like a wave. How far along was I? Could I even handle this?

I scheduled an abortion, needing to face the reality I’d ignored for far too long. At the clinic, they did an ultrasound, and the news left me breathless: I wasn’t a few weeks pregnant—I was 28 weeks along. The procedure couldn’t be done in the state I was in, and even elsewhere, it would require special approval from doctors willing to take on such a late-stage case.

Loneliness consumed me. I hadn’t told anyone. The idea of traveling to an unfamiliar city, alone, made the weight unbearable. But I was lucky—doctors here approved the procedure. After an injection to stop the baby’s heartbeat, they scheduled me for delivery at a hospital.

Holding him after the birth was surreal. He was perfect—tiny, warm, and innocent. For a few hours, it felt magical, like he was mine in every way. But then came the goodbye. Leaving him behind, walking out of that hospital empty-handed, and coming home to act as if nothing had happened shattered me.

Now, I’m haunted by it all. The silence. The emptiness. The guilt. But deep down, I hold onto the belief that I made the right choice. Bringing him into a life of instability and chaos would’ve been cruel. I did this for him—for the life he deserved but that I couldn’t give.

Goodbye my little angel…