The last time I heard your heartbeat was also the first time: an odd, fluttering rhythm that resonated in my mind. Alone on crinkly paper in a dimly lit room, I was surrounded by two doctors (men aren’t allowed in ultrasound rooms in China), and the screen was turned away from me.
I’ve never seen you, but I picture you with a shock of blond hair and chubby cheeks, a little piece of your father’s Dutch heritage. You would be four years old this year. In my mind, you’re a boy—I can’t explain why. Perhaps it’s a mother’s instinct or a wish for something I once felt indifferent about.
I’ve always thought I wanted kids, though I’m not entirely sure. My thoughts on desire are rooted in a broad concept of Life, shaped by societal expectations: find a partner, fall in love, marry, and have children, complete with the classic two-car garage and white picket fence. I think I want that, and a part of me does. There’s a certain comfort in sharing dreams with another person; as humans, we crave connection and love. Yet, reality seldom aligns with fantasy. While a small part of me longs for family and stability, the larger part—my true self—does not.
I am pragmatic, not family-oriented, and uninterested in the trappings that tether us to one place or person. I know myself well enough to admit I wouldn’t have made a good mother, simply because the desire isn’t there. So, when you came into my life, my little bean, I was taken aback.
I want to say that from the moment I saw those two lines on that pregnancy test, you became real to me. I felt a mix of fear and excitement. I wish I could say my world shifted, that all that mattered was you, that I envisioned you as a spirited child, always sucking your thumb like I did until I was five. I’d like to think you would have inherited your father’s gentle kindness and my wild streak, along with our shared sense of humor and sarcasm (poor thing). You would have been a cookie monster, just like your dad.
But the truth is, when I first saw those two lines, disbelief washed over me. I took the test eight more times, and it was during that final test that the tears came. That’s how your father found me, curled up in our bathroom, crying. I remember forcing myself to feel something—anything—because all I could feel was numb. Being pregnant at 21 felt like being trapped beneath rubble in an earthquake, as if my entire world had crumbled.
Abortion is a complicated topic, laden with preconceived notions. It forces us into neat boxes of black and white, with pro-life or pro-choice labels that fail to capture the nuances of a deeply personal situation. There are many layers to this truth:
- It took me five years to confront the memory of you.
- I wanted you—part of me really did. I don’t often dwell on regrets; I’m too practical for that. But there’s a part of me that wishes I could turn back time, to pause and truly think about what I wanted instead of letting your father and my mother guide my decision.
- I didn’t want you, though. I wanted to live my life. I was just embarking on my career and had just turned 21. Your father and I were already facing issues in our relationship—he wanted to settle down while I craved freedom.
I didn’t understand then how deeply your father loved me. He knew we couldn’t keep you because we weren’t ready, and for a long time, I resented him for being right. It was easier to blame him than to accept my own role in the situation. You weren’t the catalyst for my choices; you became the excuse I needed to escape.
The distinction between adolescent infatuation and adult love is striking; he kept trying, but it’s challenging to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you. I was selfish, immature, and careless with love, life, and myself. For years, I buried the memory of you, sealing it away in a box labeled “do not touch.” I compartmentalized and ran away from the emotions until I was ready to confront whatever I was evading.
Time and therapy can shift perspectives. I’m weary of punishing myself for letting you go or for feeling relieved. I grapple with a whirlwind of emotions—sadness, guilt, and relief—all intertwined. I’ve cried countless tears and felt a numbness that enveloped me, and I’ve built a life because you were not here.
The truth is, I am simultaneously grateful and remorseful. You would be four years old now, and I want you to know that you are real to me. You’ve always been real to me—those two lines changed my life irrevocably. You are an endless source of sadness I will always carry. But I don’t believe I have to move on from you. You exist in the periphery of my life, teaching me, reminding me, and keeping me strong. You made me a mother, even if not in the conventional sense. Motherhood transforms people, and you transformed me.
Occasionally, I think of you, imagining who you are and who you might become. I picture you running barefoot along the beach, leaping into a lake, unafraid, up in heaven. I mourn you, but I also know I wouldn’t have been a good mother had I kept you. I would have resented you for the life I would have given up. I would rather feel guilty for my decision than risk being a bad mother who would have negatively impacted your life.
I’m uncertain about reincarnation, but I hope the angels are watching over you. I pray that, someday, you’ll return to me, and I can give you everything you deserve, everything I now understand about being a good person because of you.
For more information on pregnancy and insemination, consider visiting resources like American Pregnancy. Additionally, if you’re interested in exploring home insemination options, check out Make a Mom. And if you’re looking for insights on the complexities of this journey, Intracervical Insemination provides valuable information.
Summary
The author reflects on the complex emotions surrounding an unplanned pregnancy and the subsequent decision to terminate it. Through a personal lens, they explore the conflict between societal expectations and personal desires, ultimately acknowledging the profound impact this experience had on their identity. They express a mix of gratitude and sorrow for the child they had to let go, recognizing the lessons learned from that pivotal moment.