The last time I perceived your heartbeat was also the first: an odd, fluttering rhythm that resonated in my mind. I found myself lying on crinkled paper in a dimly lit room, accompanied only by two doctors—men aren’t permitted in the ultrasound room in my country—with the screen turned away from me.
Though I’ve never laid eyes on you, I picture you as a cherubic little boy, inheriting your father’s Dutch traits. This year, you would be four.
In my mind, you’re a son, although I cannot pinpoint why I feel this way. Is it a mother’s instinct or a whimsical desire for something I was often indifferent toward? I’ve always thought I wanted children, yet I’m unsure. My understanding of desire is broad and abstract, rooted in societal norms: meet someone, fall in love, marry, have kids, and enjoy the comforts of a two-car garage and a white picket fence—the quintessential dream.
I think I want that life, and a fragment of me truly does. There is warmth in sharing dreams with someone else; as humans, we innately seek companionship and love. Yet, reality often diverges from fantasy. While a small part of me contemplates family and stability, the more significant part of me—the real me—is not family-oriented. I find little appeal in the trappings of domesticity or anything that binds me to a single place or person. I am pragmatic, calculating, and often temperamental. I recognize my shortcomings and know I would not excel as a mother because, frankly, I’m just not interested.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I discovered you were on your way, my little bean.
I want to say that you felt real to me from the moment I saw those two lines on that white stick. I was scared yet also filled with excitement. I wish I could say my world shifted, and all I cared about was you. I envisioned you as an adventurous little creature, perhaps sucking your thumb as I once did until I was five. I imagined you would inherit your father’s gentle kindness and my rebellious spirit, along with our shared sense of humor and sarcasm (poor child). I envisioned you as a cookie monster, just like your father.
But the reality is, when those lines appeared, disbelief washed over me.
I took the test eight more times, and it was the last one that finally made me cry.
That’s how your dad found me—hunched over in our bathroom, sobbing. I remember forcing myself to cry, desperate to feel something… anything, as I was overwhelmed with numbness. Being pregnant at 21 felt akin to being crushed beneath rubble in an earthquake. My world had crumbled.
Abortion is a complex subject, laden with preconceived notions. You’re often categorized into simplistic boxes—pro-life or pro-choice. The reality, however, is far more nuanced, filled with opinions about a body that seems to belong to everyone but you.
This truth comprises many facets:
- It took five years for me to confront the memory of you.
- I did want you. Honestly, a part of me really did. Regret is rare for me; I’m too practical for that. I tend to dismiss things that can’t be changed. Yet, a part of me longs to rewind time and reconsider that moment; I wish I had paused longer, reflected deeper on what I truly wanted, instead of yielding to pressure from your dad or my mom.
- I didn’t want you. I desired to live my life. At 21, I was just beginning my career, and your father and I were already facing challenges in our relationship, often arguing over my desire to socialize while he preferred to stay in. He was older and ready for something serious; I was a rebellious child struggling with the monotony of domestic life.
I didn’t grasp how your father loved me then. He knew we weren’t prepared to keep you, and for a long time, I resented him for it. I hated him for being right, as it was easier to blame someone else than accept my own guilt.
In the end, you weren’t the catalyst for our breakup; you became the excuse I needed to escape.
The difference between adolescent love and adult relationships is that he kept trying. Unfortunately, it’s challenging to be with someone who doesn’t wish to stay.
I was selfish, immature, and careless with love, life, and myself.
For years, I buried the memory of you, sealing it in a box labeled “do not touch.” It’s how I cope: I shut down, compartmentalize, and run away until I’m prepared to confront the monster I’ve evaded. The passage of time, along with therapy, has shifted my perspective.
I’m exhausted from punishing myself for letting you go. I feel guilty for not feeling guiltier, for the relief I sometimes experienced, and for the sadness mingled with those emotions. I’ve cried countless tears over the numbness that engulfed me and the life I’ve built in your absence.
The truth is, I feel both gratitude and sorrow simultaneously. You would be four this year, and I want you to know that you have always been real to me—those two lines irrevocably altered my life. They opened an infinite well of sadness that I will never fully escape. But perhaps I don’t need to. You are not just a memory I must overcome.
You exist in the background of my life, teaching, reminding, and strengthening me. You made me a mother, even if not in the conventional sense. Motherhood transforms individuals, and you have transformed me.
Occasionally, I think of you, daydreaming about who you might have become—running barefoot on a beach, fearlessly diving into a lake, embraced by the heavens.
I mourn for you, but I am not regretful for my decision to let you go. Had I kept you, resentment would have followed. I would prefer to feel guilty for my choices rather than be a bad mother who might have compromised your life and worldview.
I can’t say whether I believe in reincarnation, but I wish for the angels to look after you. I hope that one day, should fate allow, you’ll return to me, and I’ll have the chance to give you everything you deserve—everything I’ve learned about being a good person because of you.
Resources for Consideration
For those considering similar journeys, resources like this article on home insemination kits or insights on ovulation from Dr. Sarah Thompson may offer valuable perspectives, and March of Dimes is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, this reflection delves into the complex emotions surrounding the decision to let go of a child who could have been. It explores the conflicting feelings of gratitude, guilt, and the profound impact of that choice on one’s identity and life path.