Thinking about our first child is still a stabbing pain in my heart. Was I really supposed to let him grow up with a label, with everyone saying there was something wrong with him?
How many people born with severe defects grow up to thank their parents for bringing them into this world?
“Do you actually think you did nothing wrong?” My mother?in?law saw my expression and got even angrier. “If it weren’t for you, would my son—a perfectly good college graduate—still be without a stable job and without a child?”
“Yes! It’s all my fault!” Rage and resentment surged in my chest. I hated my own uselessness, and I hated all the ways she tried to control me.
After the surgery, I lay in bed for a month.
When my mother?in?law found out I’d had an abortion, she called every single day to curse me for “killing her grandchild.”
My husband was afraid she’d disturb my rest, so he turned off my phone.
Then she started calling him nonstop, or my mother.
She decided it was my mother’s fault—that my mom had “manipulated” me into getting an abortion.
My husband tried to explain that the baby had serious problems, but she wouldn’t believe him.
Because my body was weak, and I’d just had the abortion, I kept having health issues and had to go in and out of the hospital.
Two weeks after I was discharged, my mom went back home. After that, my husband not only had to go out and work all day, but also take care of me when he came home.
I was afraid of dragging him down, so I forced myself to act like I’d fully recovered and started preparing to look for a job.
But he was worried I’d get too exhausted and told me to stay home and rest a few more months.
In the end, I stayed home, helping with housework and cooking.
Little by little, everything started to feel normal again. I didn’t realize that was the moment my life began to drift away from the rest of the world.
From the day I started doing housework full?time, I gradually turned into a stay?at?home wife.
At first, I planned to look for a job as soon as my body was stronger. But because I’d been out of work for too long, my résumé didn’t get me many calls back, and I couldn’t find anything decent.
By the time I finally got a job offer, I found out I was pregnant again.
Just like that, the job I’d just gotten slipped away.
When my mother?in?law heard I was pregnant, she insisted I go back to my hometown immediately to “protect the baby,” terrified the same thing as last time would happen again.
I didn’t want to be separated from my husband. I didn’t want to go. So my husband suggested that his mother come live with us instead.
I refused. I couldn’t stand the way she was always pointing fingers at my life, criticizing everything I did.
In the end, my husband promised that this time, no matter what, he would never let me get an abortion again—no matter how the baby turned out.
His mother didn’t come, and I didn’t go back.
I slipped into a life of “protecting the pregnancy.”
This time, my mom didn’t come either, because my sister?in?law was pregnant too.
My husband silently took on everything—housework, laundry, cooking, all done after a full day at work—while I mostly lay in bed, occasionally going out for a short walk.
He was exhausted, but every time he looked at my growing belly, he seemed to feel it was all worth it.
But life never goes the way you want it to.
That day, I was out walking like usual when my foot landed on a bottle. I slipped, and instinctively grabbed for the nearest stool, but it couldn’t take my full weight as I fell toward it.
“Bang!” The stool crashed to the ground with me. I was already four months pregnant, and a sharp, tearing pain shot through my lower body.
Clenching my teeth, I called my husband—then the pain swallowed me whole, and everything went dark.
When I woke up, I was already in the hospital.
I reached for my belly. The moment my hand touched it, tears poured down my face and wouldn’t stop.
Seeing me cry, my husband rushed to the bedside. He pulled me into his arms and held me tightly, gently patting my back.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” The words tumbled out of me. I blamed myself for being so careless. I used to think TV dramas were ridiculous—how could a simple fall cause a miscarriage?
But reality proved me wrong. I had been fully conscious when I felt the baby slip away from my body. The pain had been unbearable—I didn’t know if it was my body that hurt more, or my heart.
