‘It’s time to move on, get back on track and forget the past. It’s for the best,’ Mum told me the night after I had the abortion, bizarrely in the same London hospital that I was born in. Her arm was hanging loosely around my shoulders; she seemed relieved.

‘There’s no point dwelling on things,’ echoed Dad. Then they shut the door on me in my childhood bedroom, my grief so raw and palpable, my eyes heavy with tears and red from all the crying. Who could do that to their own daughter?

The only person I confided in was Katie, who had been shocked, but vowed to support me whatever I decided to do, although she too had leant towards the feeling that perhaps a termination was the most ‘sensible’ choice.

I can’t pretend to know what losing a baby later in pregnancy, or at full term, must be like, but even so, at ten weeks, she was very real. I don’t know for sure that my baby was a girl, but I’m as sure as I can be. I felt it. She was strong; a cheeky one. She didn’t want to go so soon, before she even had a chance at life. I know, because she was inside of my body. But I took her future away. I felt there was no other option. If I didn’t terminate the pregnancy then I’d have to drop out of uni, and I hadn’t even completed my first year. I’d end up living back at home, I’d be a drain on my parents’ lives and finances for the foreseeable future. My dreams would be cut short. I didn’t believe I had any other option. I was so wracked with shame and guilt. My mother even made the appointment at the hospital for me. Little did I realize then that I’d end up dropping out of my university course anyway.

The day after that, my boyfriend came from uni to visit; he thought I’d been in hospital for suspected appendicitis. That was the story Katie and I made up. I was still in shock and I looked awful, and I wanted to tell him the truth so desperately, but I had been warned by my parents that it wasn’t a good idea. It was better to get on with my life rather than risk what his reaction might be.

‘It will be okay, Luce,’ was all he could say. ‘At least you didn’t have to have it taken out.’

If only he knew the irony in those words.

I searched his face for some comfort, for him to somehow ask the right question so that I would have no choice but to tell him everything, but found none. He didn’t know how to deal with me, and I didn’t know how to let him in. I was too scared. Things felt awkward between us for the first time ever. He stood by my bed in silence. My hand lay there on the duvet, aching to be held. He must have thought this was a gross overreaction for suspected appendicitis. But something between us had gone. We had been together for nine months – the same amount of time that it takes to grow a baby – and it had felt so intense. At first it was about his good looks, but our bond quickly deepened and I thought I had found my soul mate. Yet now we didn’t know how to connect right now. His expression was fearful when I asked him to give me some space to rest and I’d give him a call when I was back on my feet again.