Having learned of the life that their unborn child will have because of a genetic deletion, Chris Howe and his wife are forced to make a harrowing decision.

"Can you see the monitor?" the nurse asks. "No," I lie. The nurse nods and ceases adjusting the display.

I hold my wife's hand, stealing glimpses at the monitor. The procedure is very simple. A quick injection into the thigh to sedate. It is important there is no movement during the procedure. I, punishing myself, secretly watch the display.

On the monitor I see a needle carefully pierce the heart wall, injecting a solution. There is no delay. The heart stops immediately. My wife cries. I join her. Inside, our daughter, a week away from being born, shifts slightly. She is unaware of the death of her brother moments before and centimetres away.

At 34 weeks, it's a late termination. Born six days later along with his sister, Bethany, Alfred is 20 grams heavier than Beth at birth. Together, they weigh exactly five kilograms.

I'm not a great man. I may not even be a good man. I know in some eyes, I'm as evil as it gets. This story isn't fun or easy to tell. It was hard to live, and it still haunts me.

At 20 weeks we'd received the best news ever - our twins were a boy and girl. We already had a daughter and it was exactly what we wanted. Two daughters and a son. I'd have a son. A son. It's a big deal for a fella. I won't lie, I was pretty chuffed.

My son would live for 14 more weeks.

It rolled from a single 'indicator' at 24 weeks to genetic tests uncovering a deletion at 32 weeks. "How bad is that?" I asked the geneticist. "It's never good," he responded. It was 23 December, 2008.

For the next few hours we discussed his condition. He'd look normal. He'd live almost as long as his sister, with a small chance of an early death from a heart condition. He wouldn't walk before six years of age, and he'd never talk. He'd be unable to express himself or to tell the difference between loved ones and strangers. Kisses could become vicious bites due to low impulse control. He'd be violent and would need to be kept away from children his own age. Inappropriate approaches to strangers during puberty were likely.

He'd never live an independent life. He'd require care from birth to death.

Sometimes, the decision to abort is almost made for us. The defect means the child won't survive, or the mother's life is at risk, or both. Without diminishing the horror for the parents, it can simply be tragically unavoidable. But not in the case of Fred. We had to ask the hard questions. Questions that make you seem like a villain for even considering them.

What makes us human? When is a life worth living? Worth ending? How much suffering is bearable? Is avoiding suffering brave or is it cowardice? When is abortion justified?

Should Fred be born, my wife would never return to work. My daughters would always come second. Some basic research online and asking friends in health roles showed a high chance of divorce before my son was a teenager, the stress of care literally tearing our family apart. Every news article we read showed little or no government support, with charities closing their doors. The doctors were encouraging about support; the real life carers we spoke to, not so much.

I'd never support killing a born child on any grounds. Yet here I was, suggesting death for a child almost born. I may not be a good man, but I'm a husband and a father. Had we not known, I'd be living with Fred's condition today; but we take the tests so we can act on the information received.

So, let a bad man say the words that will condemn me: Fred's life would have been less than human. It would have been filled with love, yes, but mostly loneliness, confusion, pain and frustration. The risk to my marriage and the welfare of my daughters was too much. I chose to minimise suffering. For my wife, for my daughters, for myself and most of all for Fred, I chose abortion. It was a choice of love.

I regret having to make the decision, but I'll never regret the decision itself. That said, I miss him in my life. At least I have Bethany, while many parents have nothing. A few weeks ago I held her, six days before her birthday, a little tighter on that day.