“There is something wrong,” he said, before ushering me to a genetic counselor who promptly asked if I wanted to terminate the pregnancy. I contemplated abortion, seriously, for the nearly hourlong drive home from the hospital. “If I have an abortion, will we name the baby? Will we be able to have a service? How will I explain to people that I am no longer pregnant? What will I tell the kids?” I asked these questions of my then-husband, and also myself. I was so stuck on what people would think I was nearly incapable of making a decision. It’s as if the certainty of things not working out would be easier to stomach than the uncertainty that they might. I had no faith, but I knew my life was never going to be the same again regardless of my choice, and I knew I would be haunted by the “what ifs” of a rash decision. So I waited. And that meant carrying to term.