When my husband and I watched Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton in the third presidential debate discuss abortion and unborn children, we were stunned. In response to Trump’s well-reasoned pro-life position against abortion, we were offended when Hillary Clinton condescendingly defended late-term abortion because “things can go wrong” in a pregnancy. She also chuckled.

Simply because she is a woman and a mother does not mean she is qualified on any level, let alone as the Democrat candidate, to speak for millions of women of faith — and Catholics like myself — who stand with God against such calamity. For if anything should be deemed an offense — both morally and legally — it is the killing of innocents who were created by God for a divine purpose of which we could not possibly know today, tomorrow or a lifetime from now.

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I am a wife and the mother of a courageous and successful 30-year-old man who is deaf with special needs and is utterly devoted to his Catholic faith. My son is a painter and poet, the latter in three languages — American Sign (ASL, his primary language), plus English and Spanish. He has no residual hearing to be amplified by any technological device. Yet, distilled to its essence, his problematic birth, childhood, and miraculous adulthood have been the greatest blessing of my life.

My story, however, is not unique. In the mid-1980s, I had a successful career as a criminal attorney and was married to another attorney. It was a great life. But after 11 years of marriage with no children, we agreed to legally separate and begin to rebuild our lives.

It was not long after establishing my new home that the unthinkable happened. I was date raped.

I understood all of my legal rights. And I had options to consider in terms of my then-pending divorce, legal career, and finances — as well as my relationships with colleagues, family, and friends. Somehow, however, none of this mattered.

As taught to me by a Franciscan sister, “God sends crosses to the ones He loves.” And although I have no direct knowledge of being special in any way, let alone to God, suffering for my faith was not my style. Nonetheless, it became clear as time passed that God was not going to allow me to take the easy way out.

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I was then in my late 30s and was being treated for acute endometriosis. The prescribed protocol was to prevent monthly menstrual cycles in order to allow my body “a rest” from hormonal imbalances. But three months after the rape, my body broke down. I was continually  exhausted and was gaining weight at a rapid rate. My family physician diagnosed a cancerous tumor of the uterus. I promptly sought a second opinion with a specialist in Manhattan — who immediately scheduled a sonogram.

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In a panic, I thought of nothing but cancer.

During the ultrasound, I was so terrified I couldn’t even pray. The radiologist was efficient but finally I blurted out, “How large is the tumor?”

She smiled — a smile never to be forgotten — and replied. “It’s not a tumor. Look for yourself!”

And she showed me what she saw. What a sight to behold! Three months along, there was my unborn child, my boy, in such exquisite detail — mop of hair, fingernails, toenails. I had almost no time to reflect as I was then quickly taken back to my doctor, to whom I said, “I want to have this baby!” He replied, “Of course you do!”

It was in that moment that I wondered: How would he know I would make this choice, after all I’d been through? And moreover, did I really have a choice?

It defied my sense of reason or logic that God would lead me to this place of joy and anxiety. Within days, I was assigned to a crisis pregnancy counselor who evaluated my medical history — and pronounced an array of probable disabilities for my child as a result of the medications I had been taking in the first trimester.

I had one response. “I am going to have this child!”

I have no proof — upon which attorneys rely so heavily — but I believe that at that moment God smiled.

Related: One Candidate Advocates for Evil Acts, Including Abortion

The struggles that ensued from then on seemed at times like trench warfare. Many people in my circle could not understand my decision, even after I gave birth to my son. I gave up my practice of law to travel around the country to find my child the best education and services for his needs. The one who got me through the toughest of times was — yes — my own son. He inspired me to be better and to meet his courage with my own.

As he grew, we became a mother-and-son law firm and advocacy junket. We fought the battles together, two as one. The odds against him didn’t matter — whether he struggled to sit before his first birthday; swallow solid food at six years old; master a bicycle at nine years old; swim the length of a YMCA Olympic-sized pool at 10 years old; or become the first deaf kid to graduate from a struggling state high school for the deaf and blind and make it to university.

Who could have predicted such blessings, such life, such loving bonds, 30 years ago? Certainly not Hillary Clinton.

There are still women like me of the Catholic faith, whether they are young, older, or oldest, who pray their Most Holy Rosaries and believe in the miraculous power of God. From here to eternity, we mothers have thought of nothing other than this: All children are worth saving.

Related: Women’s Issues Ignored by Abortion Advocates

Still, do not give credit to us. Give any honor first to God. And then give it to the children like my son — a son who reminds me every single day with hands alight mid-air in his gorgeous American Sign Language: “Mom, it’s all about love. Love … is the answer.”

“Yes, my son,” I reply. “From your fingertips to God’s ears.”

The author, a retired attorney, is a published poet, author, and columnist based in Arizona.