A piece in progress

I'm working on a memorial piece that was inspired by a true story about my dear grandfather, who passed away this past December. I'll tell you this crazy awesome story soon! Don't want to spoil the surprise. For  now, would my literary friends give me some feed back on the opening lines? 

My back was killing me. Standing for forty-five minutes on my two very swollen ankles wasn’t helping. I would have sat, but those wicker chairs had probably been in the foyer since 1957 and were just as hard on my back. So I stood.

Waiting for a meeting with twelve deacons wouldn’t be comfortable in any case, especially in my condition.

I was eight months pregnant with a baby that wasn’t supposed to happen. We were careful, took all those necessary precautions. I thought we had it all under control. Apparently we didn’t. Once we found out, he made an appointment for me to take care of things. That day I drove myself to the abortion clinic, I had a sinking feeling inside my stomach. It wasn’t religious guilt; I hadn’t been to church since I was a girl in jumpers and pigtails. But, still, something nagged me.

When I pulled into our driveway, he was waiting. By the looks of it he had just mowed our lawn and was happily sipping his beer, totally nonchalant. We exchanged the usual welcome-home kiss, which is different from the going-to-work kiss or even the it’s-been-a-long-day kiss.

“So, how was it?”

"Well, you know, it was, um. . . “ my voice trailed.

“It was what, babe? You had that appointment today, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” he was prodding, “How did it go?”

“It didn’t.”

“It didn’t?” He raised an eyebrow. The man knew exactly what I meant, he just wanted a confession.

“I didn’t get the abortion.”

“So, you’re still pregnant?”

“Yes.”