Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I remember you listening to my symptoms while I explained over the phone why I sounded so tired. I remember you asking, well are you pregnant? and me lying by saying, no.

I think some weird hetero-normative, religiously groomed, and cinematically maternal part of me wished I could’ve told you the truth then. An even smaller part of me even wanted to tell you after I wasn’t pregnant anymore, as if you’d comfort me.

Although to be perfectly honest, a bigger truth was hiding under the brazen lie.

The decision to have an abortion was an easy one. Not traditionally, no. The stigma is rough to face, and what should be viewed as a part of a person’s basic healthcare, is instead is viewed as a “sin” in your eyes, and in the eyes of plenty of other people who believe that their religions reign supreme over other people’s lives.

That didn’t matter to me though because I knew that I didn’t want to be a mother. I knew I didn’t want to be a mother because you failed so miserably at being mine.

What I truly understand about being a mother lies within all of the valuable lessons I learned from you. You see, parenting is supposed to be a selfless act, and the amount of responsibility you have as a parent to mold a young mind, to keep a child safe, and to make a child feel loved - seemed like too big of an ask from you.

When I found out I was pregnant I mimed the sort of feelings you’re supposed to have when you’re an unexpectedly pregnant adult. I sat on the toilet and stared at the digital word “Pregnant” on the test. I felt my pulse pushing itself out of my ears. The test confirmed what I’d already known - I was pregnant and that was why I felt sick as shit.

I left the bathroom and told my partner what the test result was and we were mocking the sort of excitement we thought we were supposed to have, before reality set in - we had a decision to make.

I wasn’t raised to believe in abortions but the first time I heard what the alternative is (forced pregnancy), I remember you and I fighting about it. I remember asking you when I was younger, If I were pregnant and having a baby would 100% kill me, you’d want to save the pregnancy? and you said,

Yes.

You helped me decide to get the abortion, Mom. You - the person who didn’t want their own children, who lied to their partner about their ability to get pregnant, who treated me like their competition, would choose a potential fetus over saving me - you helped me choose to never want a child, to save myself from letting down someone even half as bad as you let me down.

I know I wouldn’t be the best mother to a child. I know I wouldn’t make the best nurturer, or caregiver, or clean up after a kid-er. I wouldn’t be able to handle cleaning up after a sick kid. Remember how you used to scream at me if I got sick anywhere aside from the toilet? I’d be crying and sometimes sitting in my own sick in the middle of the night, scared to call out to you to tell you.

Maybe there’s a few secrets hidden in this letter, the fact that I had an abortion would already floor you, and I’m sure you’d tell me how disappointed and unwelcome I am in your afterlife plan, the same way you spoke to me when I came out to you.

Then there’s the cutting truth, the more gripping and sharp reality - the person who carried me into this life inspired me to decide not to do the same.

The more I witness the state of this world trying to turn basic human rights in the opposite direction the more I am reminded of you. I am reminded of the way you never trusted me, listened to me, or made me feel like you were in my corner.

As the state fights to force pregnancies, I am reminded of the traumas you forced on me as you discounted my experiences and gaslit me until the last words we shared.

This is my truth, down to it’s ugly core. This is my secret revealed to you. When you asked if I was pregnant, I told you I wasn’t, when I really should’ve said, Yes, and I don’t want to be, I feel very sick, I don’t want to raise a child, and so I’m not going to. You won’t make me feel bad for this, you wouldn’t be good to it if I carried a pregnancy to term anyway. I won’t make your mistakes. I won’t mother a child when I know I shouldn’t. I won’t be like you. I’ll never be like you.

With a strength unlike any other,

Your youngest.