In the enveloping warmth of the darkness, it was but a tiny point of light, floating serenely in a universe all its own. It had no name, no distinct form, no sense of self. But it felt life—a steady, powerful rhythm, like the beat of a distant drum that wrapped it in its embrace. It was its mother's heartbeat, the first and only sound it knew, a gentle lullaby of existence.
Its world was a warm ocean, where the gentle tide of amniotic fluid caressed its every small movement. Whenever its mother moved, that world would tremble softly, a cradle suspended in the void. It perceived her steps, sometimes slow, sometimes hurried, and each one carried a story it could not yet comprehend. At times, its mother would rest a hand on her belly, and it would feel a wave of warmth spread through its world, as if she were trying to speak to it. But it had no language, no way to reply. It knew only to stir, to send out tiny signals, hoping its presence might be felt.
In the beginning, this world was all it knew. There was no light, no sound other than the metronome of its mother's heart and the soft rush of her blood, a river flowing peacefully. It knew no fear, no loss. It knew only that it was growing, piece by piece, sheltered by her. Each day, it felt its body change—tiny buds of life taking form, the first beats of its own minuscule heart rising to meet its mother's rhythm. It did not understand what it all meant, but it knew it was part of a miracle.
But then, that peaceful world began to fracture.
One day, its mother's heartbeat lost its steady rhythm. It grew frantic, as if she were fleeing something unseen. The breath it knew as a gentle tide became heavy, labored. It felt the tension in her body, the faint spasms that rippled through the warm waters. It stirred, trying to understand what was happening, but its world was too small to contain her secrets.
In the nights that followed, she did not sleep. It felt her tossing and turning, her body shifting in the bed. Her hands would clutch her belly, as if trying to hold onto something—or to let something go. There were times she wept. The tears were invisible, but it felt them in the shuddering sobs that shook her frame, in the trembling of her breath. It did not know what tears were, but it knew its mother was in pain. It wanted to reach out, to touch her, to say, "Mother, I am here." But it was only a tiny being, with no hands to reach, no voice to speak.
Then, one night, it heard the first whispers.
"I can't keep it…"
The words were ice-cold, an invisible blade slicing through its warm world. It did not understand what "can't keep" meant, but it felt the despair in her voice. The words were not a lullaby, not the gentle songs it had imagined she would one day sing. It stirred more forcefully, sending out a signal, a plea: "Mother, I am here. Please don't say that." But she did not hear. She remained lost in her tormented thoughts, her hands on her belly no longer feeling warm.
In the days that followed, its world grew unsettled. Her heartbeat was a song that had lost its rhythm, now fast, now slow. There were days she would sit perfectly still for a long time, not moving, not speaking, only sighing. The sighs were heavy, as if they carried the weight of a storm-filled sky. It sensed she was fighting a battle, facing a choice it could not comprehend. It wanted to scream, to tell her it was alive, that it had a heart, that it wanted to be born. But it had no way. It could only listen, feel, and wait.
There were moments, when she placed her hand on her belly, that a flicker of hope returned. But the hand was no longer gentle. It trembled with hesitation, as if she were trying to convince herself of a decision she did not want to make. It stirred, trying to touch her hand from within, hoping she would feel it. "Mother, I am here. I want to stay with you." But she remained silent, and its world plunged back into darkness.
One day, she went somewhere. It felt the urgency in her steps, her breath coming faster than ever before. The sound of a horn, the clamor of voices—all of it was alien and frightening. It curled into itself, trying to find the peace of its first days, but its world was now filled with chaotic sounds. Then it heard another voice, not its mother's.
"You want an abortion?"
The word "abortion" was a thunderclap in its tiny universe. It did not know what the word meant, but it sensed the danger, the finality, the loss. Its entire being trembled, as if trying to fight against a fate it could not grasp. It heard faint cries, muffled screams echoing from the void. Other beings, like itself, were whispering in the dark. They spoke to one another in a language only the unborn could understand.
"I have a question," a nascent voice trembled, full of uncertainty. "If being born means a life without enough to eat, without an education, a life of constant hardship—is it better not to be born at all?"
The space fell silent, as if all the spirits were pondering this. It listened, its own small heart beating faster. It did not know the answer, but the question filled it with fear. It wanted to live, to see the light, to be held in its mother's arms. But what if the world outside was as hard as the voice described?
Another voice arose, gentle but firm. "Look at the disabled couple who just had their check-up. They are poor; they can barely care for themselves. But that lucky little boy is their only hope. Without him, what would they have left?"
This made it pause. It imagined a world out there, where people struggled, and hoped, and searched for meaning. It did not know that couple, but it felt the warmth in the spirit's voice. Perhaps, it thought, its own life could be a source of hope for its mother.
Suddenly, a hoarse, older-sounding voice echoed from the void. "Heaven provides for all its creatures, my friends. No one can know the future. To be born, even into poverty, is still better than having no chance at all."
The voice let out a soft, bitter laugh. "But why is this world so unfair? Some are welcomed, others are cast away."
A quiet sadness settled over them all. The tiny souls continued to whisper, sharing their questions, their fears, their hopes. Another voice, soft but troubled, spoke up. "I have another question. Why is it so hard for people to speak of euthanasia—when a loved one is terribly ill, in so much pain they only want to be set free? But when it comes to us, they decide to end a life with such ease?"
No one answered right away. A heavy silence descended, as if the question had touched a collective wound. Another soul stirred, its voice small but clear. "Perhaps it's because those sick people have already lived. They have loved, had families, made memories. But we… we have never existed in their eyes."
"But I have life," the first voice cried, its tone choked. "I have a heart, a pulse, I am growing every day. So why do they see me as if I was never here?"
A deeper, wiser voice interjected. "Because people fear responsibility. They do not want the burden of a life they are not ready for. To them, we are not yet large enough to be part of their world."
A long pause followed. It felt its heart thumping, as if trying to shout to the world. It did not want to be seen as "never having existed." It wanted to live, to cry its first cry, to see its mother's face. But it knew no way to convince her, to make her feel its presence.
From the void, the hoarse voice laughed again, a sound tinged with sorrow. "This world is strange. They fight to prolong the life of someone with no hope left, yet they so easily extinguish the life of a soul who has not yet been born. It truly is unjust."
It curled into itself, listening to the whispers. It did not know what "abortion" was, but it sensed it was a terrible thing. It felt its mother's fear, her indecision. It knew she was torn, standing between two choices it could not comprehend. It was terrified. It did not want to disappear. It wanted to live, to be held by its mother, to become her source of life.
It thrashed, trying to send a stronger signal. "Mother, I am here! Can you hear me?" But she was silent. Her hand gently rubbed her belly, a soothing gesture, but it could not be sure if it was comfort or merely an unconscious act.
After a while, its mother left that place. It didn't know why, but she did not stay long. The sounds of the outside world faded, and its universe returned to a quiet stillness. It sensed a subtle shift. Her hand rested on her belly a little longer now, no longer trembling. It did not know if she had abandoned her intention, but it felt a fragile glimmer of hope.
In the nights that followed, she still cried. But something was different. There were moments she would quietly stroke her belly, as if trying to communicate. For the first time, it felt true warmth from her hand—a warmth of connection, of hope. It stirred, trying to touch her from within, hoping she would understand that it was here, that it loved her without ever having seen her.
It knew nothing of the world outside, but it knew one thing: its mother was Quyen, a teacher, someone trying to guide other children, even while she struggled with her own choice. It did not know what hardships she faced, but it wanted her to understand that it would be her source of life, that it would be by her side, no matter how harsh the world might be.
It stretched its legs one more time, sending a small but resolute signal. "Mother, I will be your reason to live." And in the warm darkness, it waited, hoping that one day, she would hear its call.