The last time I felt your heartbeat was also the very first time: a peculiar, fluttering sound that resonated in my mind. I found myself lying on crinkled paper, alone in a dimly lit room, accompanied only by two doctors (in China, men cannot enter ultrasound rooms) while the screen was angled away from me.
Although I have never seen you, I envision you with tousled, golden hair and chubby cheeks—traits inherited from your father. You would be four years old this year. In my mind, you are a boy. I can’t explain why; perhaps it’s a mother’s instinct, or an irrational desire for something I had always been ambivalently indifferent about.
I’ve always thought I wanted children, but I’m not entirely sure. My understanding of desire is rather abstract, tied to the idea that it’s what one is expected to do as they “grow up.” Find a partner, fall in love, marry, and have children—all while living the quintessential life with a two-car garage and a white picket fence. Part of me craves that, and there is a certain comfort in sharing a dream with another person. As humans, we naturally seek companionship and love, which is why this idyllic vision persists. However, reality often diverges from fantasy. While I occasionally fantasize about family and stability, a larger part of me, the authentic me, is uninterested.
The pragmatic side of me is not family-oriented and doesn’t desire the confines of a picket fence or anything that ties me to a specific place or person. I recognize my shortcomings and understand that I wouldn’t make a good mother simply because I’m not inclined to be one.
So, you can imagine my shock when I discovered you were on the way—my little bean. I want to claim that you’ve been a part of me since I saw those two lines on the test. That despite my fear, I felt overwhelming excitement. I’d like to say my world shifted, making you my sole focus and that I pictured you as a curious little being, sucking your thumb as I once did until I was five.
I’d like to believe you would have inherited your father’s gentle kindness and my spirited rebellion, both of our senses of humor and sarcasm (poor child), perhaps even becoming a cookie monster just like him. But the reality is, when those two lines appeared, I was paralyzed by disbelief. I took the test eight more times, and it was only on the last attempt that I finally let the tears flow.
That’s where your father found me—hunched over in our bathroom, sobbing. I remember forcing myself to cry, trying to feel something because all I felt was numb. Being pregnant at 21 felt akin to being trapped under a building during an earthquake; my world crumbled around me.
Discussing Abortion
Discussing abortion is complex. It comes with assumptions and judgments, forcing us into rigid categories of pro-life or pro-choice. The nuances of such a situation often get lost in oversimplified opinions regarding a body that seems to belong to everyone but you.
This truth is layered:
- It has taken me five years to confront you, or at least, the memory of you.
- A part of me genuinely wanted you. I don’t regret many things in life; I’m too practical for that. Things with no solutions are easily pushed aside. Yet, I often wish I could rewind to that moment. I should have paused, thought more critically about what I wanted instead of allowing your father or my mother to persuade me otherwise.
- I also didn’t want you. I wanted to live my life. I was just starting my career, having turned 21, and my relationship with your father was rocky. He was older, more mature, and seemingly ready for love, while I was a rebellious spirit struggling with the mundanity of domesticity.
I didn’t understand how deeply your father loved me. He knew we weren’t ready for you, and for a long time, I resented him for being correct. It was easier to blame him than to accept my own part in the situation. In the end, you weren’t the catalyst; you became the excuse I needed to escape.
The difference between a teenage crush and adult love is that he kept trying. Unfortunately, it’s challenging to be with someone who doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. I was selfish, immature, and careless with love, life, and especially myself.
For years, I buried the memory of you deep within a locked box labeled “do not touch.” That’s my coping mechanism: I shut down, compartmentalize, and run until I’m ready to confront whatever I’m avoiding. Time and therapy can shift perspectives significantly.
I’m weary of punishing myself for letting you go, for feeling guilty about not feeling guilty enough. I grapple with the relief I felt, the sadness that follows, and the confusing emotions I carry. The tears I’ve shed, the numbness that enveloped me, and the life I’ve lived without you all contribute to an infinite pool of sadness I will never fully escape. Yet, I’ve come to realize that I don’t have to. You are not merely something I need to get over.
You exist in the background of my life, teaching me valuable lessons, reminding me of my strength. You made me a mother in spirit, even if not in the traditional sense. Motherhood transforms individuals, and your presence has changed me.
Occasionally, I ponder who you would have grown up to be, imagining you running barefoot on the beach, diving into a lake fearlessly, joyfully, somewhere in heaven. I mourn your absence, but paradoxically, I am not regretful about having made the choice to let you go. I believe I would have resented you had I chosen to keep you. I’d rather endure guilt for my decision than risk being a bad mother who could have negatively influenced your life and worldview.
I’m uncertain about reincarnation, but I sincerely hope that angels are taking care of you. And I pray that one day, if fate allows, you’ll return to me, and I can give you all that you deserve, everything I now understand about being a good person, all thanks to you.
Conclusion
In summary, this poignant reflection explores the complex emotions surrounding unexpected pregnancy, the difficult decision to terminate, and the lasting impact of that choice. It delves into the nuances of motherhood, the struggle with societal expectations, and the deep-rooted feelings of loss and guilt. The author acknowledges the journey of coming to terms with their past and the lessons learned through this experience. For more insights regarding fertility and conception, consider visiting Modern Family Blog and March of Dimes for valuable resources.