Editor’s Note: Alice Eve Cohen is the author of What I Thought I Knew, just published by Viking. A solo theater artist and playwright, she is the recipient of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, and is a teacher at the New School in New York City.

Ten years ago, Michael and I had an emotional turning point that nearly jeopardized our marriage. I was 44, he was 34, and we were engaged. I was facing the terrifying possibility of a late-term abortion, with one week to decide.

When I was 30, I was diagnosed as infertile. My doctor told me that I could never get pregnant naturally, and strongly cautioned me not to attempt pregnancy with fertility treatment, as I would never be able to carry a baby past six months. So at age 44, when I started to feel sick, my various doctors attributed my ailments to early menopause and other conditions related to aging. Six months, numerous X-rays, CAT scans, prescription hormones and a slew of doctors later, I was raced to an emergency CAT scan for a large abdominal tumor — which turned out not to be a tumor at all. I was six months pregnant.

I’d had no prenatal care, the fetus had been subjected to six months of tests and treatments, which were known to cause birth defects and other injuries, and I had every reason to believe that the baby would suffer further debilitating injury from premature birth. I wanted to terminate the pregnancy, but at 24 weeks, said my doctor, it was too late for an abortion in New York State.

I desperately didn’t want to have this baby, and I hated myself for not wanting it. I had been unhappy before, but I had never thought about killing myself. Now I began to think of suicide as my way out: the only way to end the pregnancy, and the best solution to protect the unborn baby from a life of pain.

Michael came with me to see an abortion specialist. "Since you’re contemplating suicide, you could have an abortion in Kansas, where, if the mother’s life is in danger, an abortion is legal up until the 28th week," he told us. "Seven days from today." At my request, he scheduled an abortion in Wichita for the following Tuesday. "Think about it for the next few days before you decide," he said. Then he turned to Michael. "What do you think about all this?"

"Me? Oh, Jesus … a lot of different things," Michael answered. "I’ve seen Alice in the throes of this terrible unhappiness, and I don’t recognize her. I’ve been politically in favor of choice, but uncommitted on the personal side — it’s been an abstraction. But now that this is suddenly so real, all I can think is that there’s a baby. Our baby. My baby. And I can’t stand the thought of this baby being aborted. So If Alice has an abortion, I won’t go to Wichita with her. And I might not be here when she gets back. I’ll have my own unbearable sorrow about losing this baby, about endorsing this decision. But I don’t want Alice to kill herself. So she should do what she needs to do."

I spent the week wrestling with this impossible decision. On the day before I was scheduled to fly to Wichita, Michael begged me not to have the abortion. "I’ve already decided to have the baby," I said. Michael thanked me and burst into tears.

For the past ten years, this turning point moment in our relationship — Michael acknowledging my right to choose, but telling me he might leave me if I had the abortion — has remained a largely unspoken but crucial shared memory, equal parts rift and bridge between us.