pink angora pantsuit to encourage me to get an abortion

As soon as I got pregnant, like within 48 hours, I started barfing and dry heaving and did so until my baby was born. It was a wicked tough pregnancy, made even more stressful because my then-husband said since I believed in a woman's right to choose, I had to give him a choice and get an abortion cause he wanted one. . . the worst gift is coming, I promise . . he kicked pregnant me out of our jointly owned home and changed locks. I did go to my dad's, the nearest parent, for awhile but I needed lots of health care and all my health care was tied to the ex. But while I was in Chicago, barfing or dry heaving constantly, my Catholic mom, my Catholic dad, and four of my five Catholic siblings urged me to abort a baby I had very openly and intentionally conceived. My mom rushed to Chicago from two states away to press me to abort and she brought me a gift to make up for my sadness, with her, I guess, assuming I would get the abortion so her gift would fit. She gave me a pink angora pantsuit. I have never been someone who would wear a sweater pantsuit, much less pink angora. A true pink angora sweater and matching pants is all fluffy. I reminded my mom that I only had the contents of one suitcase, no home, no money and I was pregnant and needed maternity clothes so would she return that pink angora pantsuit and give me the money -- or, at least, buy me some maternity pants or something? She grabbed that hideous pantsuit and said "I might wear it myself but I won't return it". She was in a hotel, not welcome to stay at my dad who had not wanted her divorce. I went to my dad's, got a pair of scissors, returned to mom at her hotel and cut each piece of the pantsuits in half. The sound and feel of those orange Fiskars scissors slicing that kinda thick, it turned out, knitted fabric remains one of the most satisfying sensations I have known. Not the most satisfying but gosh, all my misery and fog began to cut away as those scissors cut that damned pink angora. It sure felt to me like my mom thought I was such a ninny that something she thought was cool, such as a pink angora pantsuit, would persuade me to abort my baby. I do believe in women's right to choose and my choice was to keep the baby whose presence I already felt as I sliced that crunchy pink angora. Yeah, it kinda crunched under the scissors. So satisfying, cutting it up. I wanted my mom and dad to support me but they told me they didn't want me to have the baby and be dependent on them financially. I was an actively practicing lawyer at the time, fyi. And only women who have experienced hyperenemesis can possibly know how physically miserable I was. Many, including my doc, said it would go away but it did not go away. And, of course, my folks and siblings, except for my baby bro who was fifteen and said he'd raise my baby, get a job and care for it, if I didn't want it but he was the only one who supported me during the worst weeks of my life. well, my mom did give me that gift to support me?