Standing in the arrivals terminal of Kennedy International Airport in New York City with my two friends, I smiled and nodded nervously when they asked, "Aren't you excited?" The loudspeaker announced his plane had landed. In truth, I had brought them along to avoid being alone with Dominique immediately. Would I still find him attractive? Would we still love each other? Had the events of life we had each experienced separately changed either of us? Do I love this man? Do I want to be with him, and only him, for the rest of my life? I looked down through the glass windows of the balcony where we stood above the customs officials, and my heart told me the answer the moment I saw him waving to me and grinning happily.

"Oh help! I do love him, don't I? Look at that face. Look at those eyes and that smile. It seems so long since I've seen it. I know that for me there is no other such face, no other such eyes, no other such smile in all the world!" Tears were streaming quietly down my cheeks as I weakly waved back.

"Try to remember the kind of September..." says the rock song from the fifties. That September of 1971 I loved, and I hated. I loved Dominique, trying hard to learn some English and to communicate with my family and friends, trying hard to identify things he had never seen before in a country unlike any European surroundings he knew.

I loved him for being willing to make himself vulnerable in a culture and language totally unfamiliar to him, all because he was determined to know me better. I loved him for finally understanding why I had cried when I was living in France, at the frustration of being reduced to the level of a baby, unable to speak freely and express myself as an adult.

But I said I hated during that month too, didn't I? I hated the struggle that was going on inside of me. Dominique had never again mentioned his dream of me screaming out his name, but it was certainly on my mind. Should I tell him? Should I explain what happened? I desperately wanted to know that he understood and accepted what had happened and loved me still. I wanted to know the comfort of love that remains despite the worst we can do.

"But what if he doesn't? What if he rejects me when he finds out? What if I lose him?" That possibility was enough to keep my mouth closed. At times, surges of the urgent need to tell him would seem likely to overcome my fears. But at the last moment, cowardice prevailed and I remained silent in private torment.

Thirty days passed and we held onto each other in the airport again, promising to write, promising to love, promising our hearts until I arrived in France in December for our engagement party.

"I love you, Dominique. Please believe that..." I whispered against his cheek. ("In spite of what I've done," I wanted to add.) But I didn't. "I'll tell him in December," I thought, driving home from the airport.

Three months later I flew to France again, with a suitcase packed with a special new outfit for my engagement party, and a mind packed with plans of telling Dominique about the abortion before we went through with the engagement. This was to be no ordinary engagement party. So far, only his parents and his brother and one of his sisters would be able to attend our wedding in the States; so this engagement would be as important to the rest of his family and friends as the wedding they would not be able to see.