Letter from an Aborted Child
By Joan Alfred Roberts
I was there when you slipped out through the window.
Daddy had told you not to go to the party. Your friends were waiting below.
“Erica, come down,” they called. “We can catch you.”
You almost got caught climbing through the window. You left the light on in your room, hoping no one would notice. Grandma passed your door. She knew you never slept with the light on, but she kept walking.
You were close to your eighteenth birthday. You wanted to see your friends and find out what the night held. At the party, you met Eddie, James, and Nosa. You drank too much. When Grandma called, you told her you would be downstairs in a minute. But you never came.
The family began night prayers without you.
“I wonder why she hasn’t come down,” Grandma said. “Maybe she’s asleep. I’ll check on her in the morning.”
You were only a few blocks from home when you could no longer make your way back alone. Nosa brought you home. He liked you, but he did not take advantage of you.
“You can’t lose all your virtues in one night,” he told you.
I wish I could have met him. Sometimes I wondered if I would have chosen him for my father.
Mommy, I remember when I was only a couple of weeks into my beginning. You spoke to me.
“I think I’m pregnant. Baby, are you in there? Can you hear me? My name is Erica. I’m going to be your mom.”
I heard you, Mommy, and I had hope.
I leaped for joy. I was happy. I danced a little in the tiny world I knew. Maybe you felt it. Maybe you didn’t.
When I came into your womb as a tiny seed, I felt at peace. I felt I belonged. I thought you were a good soul. I had dreams, goals, and hopes of my own. I could not wait to meet you.
You spoke to me often. You prayed with your hands resting on your stomach. You wondered whether I was a boy or a girl.
“If you’re a boy, I’ll start buying boy clothes,” you said. “If you’re a girl, I’ll buy girl clothes.”
I imagined you holding me. I imagined hearing you call me by my name. I believed you were getting ready for me.
I also heard you imagining how you would tell Grandma. You tried the words in your mind.
“Hi, Mommy. I have something to tell you.”
Then you tried again.
“Mommy, please don’t tell Daddy yet. I have to tell you something.”
You were in the kitchen while Grandma cut carrots and onions. The knife moved through the vegetables. You watched her hands and imagined what might happen if she became angry.
What if she cut herself? What if she cut you?
Then you stopped yourself. No, you thought. My mother is a good mother. She won’t do that. She may be angry, but she will listen.
You tried the words again.
“Mommy, something happened that day.”
“What day?”
“The night I left the light on. I went to a party. I met someone. I did something wrong. I got pregnant.”
In your imagination, Grandma said, “Okay.”
You were surprised by how calmly she said it. Then you imagined her saying, “It wasn’t a good thing to do, but I’ll talk to your father. Go to your room until I come for you. He may be very angry. You can stay home for a year. We’ll take care of the baby, and you can go back to school.”
You imagined other answers too. Maybe she would be angry and tell you that what you had done was wrong. Maybe she would talk to Daddy and help you make a plan. Maybe she would tell you to leave when you turned eighteen, only days away.
You even imagined telling her the whole truth: not only that you were pregnant, but that you had aborted the child.
You played both parts in your head – yours and Grandma’s. You tried to imagine every answer before asking the question. You knew you could confide in her.
But you didn’t.
The only person you told was Obiangeli.
Then you went to her house.
I wish you had remembered all the conversations you had imagined with Grandma. I wish you had gone to her instead. I wish you had turned around and gone home.
Obiangeli told you that you were young and should go and have fun. She said she would take you somewhere to get tablets.
“Am I going to die?” you asked.
She told you the tablets were safe. She said she had taken them many times. She said it would hurt for a little while, but you would be all right.
I heard you. I was afraid. In my anger, I called her the witch of a friend who helped you turn away from me. I wondered if it was fear speaking, or something darker. I wished you had chosen to trust your mother.
You took the tablets. One, then another. I was still so small. I did not understand what was happening. I only knew that the hope I had heard in your voice was disappearing. My little world had become a place of pain, and my life was ending before I had a chance to see yours.
I was there for nine weeks. I never saw your face. I never heard you call me by a name.
I never got the chance to call you Mommy.
I have wondered what might have happened if I had lived. Maybe you would have loved me. Maybe I would have gone between your home and Grandma’s. Maybe I would have grown up somewhere else, still wondering where I belonged.
Perhaps I should thank God that I was spared a life I cannot imagine. But I will never know what that life might have been. I only know I wanted the chance to be here.
You grew older. You married. Later, you longed for a child and tried to find your way to motherhood. Did you remember me then? Did you remember the baby you once spoke to, the baby you imagined dressing?
Maybe you were frightened. Maybe you were too young to know what to do. I have tried to understand you, but I am still hurt.
You decided to snuff me out so you could continue with your “den-ge den-ge de-pose” – going out, having fun, and trying to be young and single, as if you were still the innocent, pretty damsel people took you to be.
I never got the chance to call you mummy.
But I promise you, I will remain your one and only Abandon.
A Reflection
This is an imagined voice. I wrote it to consider the life a child in the womb might have lived: the dreams, plans, family, and stories we will never know.
Any one of us reading this could have been denied the chance to live the life we now have. Have you ever stopped to think about that?
Scripture speaks of life in the womb: “Thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139:13-16). In Luke’s Gospel, the unborn John responds when Mary visits Elizabeth (Luke 1:41-44).[1, 2]
Join in the fight for children who cannot speak for themselves. Stand up for the vulnerable, and support mothers facing fear and difficult choices.
Notes
- Psalm 139:13-16, King James Version.
- Luke 1:41-44, King James Version.
- “Den-ge den-ge de-pose” is used here to mean going out, having fun, and enjoying the freedom of being young and single.
A Pro-Life Clarion Call
You, too, can be part of this pro-life clarion call to protect life.
Through this imagined voice, I invite you to consider the sacredness of the human soul and the life that might have unfolded—the name, the family, the dreams, and the stories that never had the chance to begin. In my Catholic faith, every human life has dignity, including life in the womb.
Let us speak for the vulnerable and stand beside mothers who are frightened, unsupported, or unsure where to turn. Protecting life also means offering compassion and practical help so that no mother feels she must face her pregnancy alone.
Additional Notes
- Pro-life is the term for the movement referred to here: protecting unborn life and supporting mothers and their children.
- The Knights of Columbus, a Catholic fraternal organization, supports pregnancy resource centers and maternity homes through its Aid and Support After Pregnancy program. (kofc.org)
- The Sisters of Life, a Catholic religious community, serves women facing difficult pregnancies and offers support and healing after abortion. (sistersoflife.org)
- On June 24, 2022, the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization overturned Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, returning authority over abortion regulation to the people and their elected representatives. The ruling did not itself impose a nationwide abortion ban. (supremecourt.gov)
