what about me?

Fiction By Brighid // 7/6/2020

*I just read a testimony of a young man whose wife had an abortion without telling him that she was ever pregnant. It damaged their relationship so badly and it looked like nothing could fix it. Through a lot of prayer and the miraculous birth of their second child, they came back together. Neither of them knew just how much pain the other was going through after the abortion. It breaks my heart to know how many fathers have NO say in the decisions that take their child's life. This little story is super raw and I wrote it in something like 20 minutes, just crying and imagining the horror of being the father of a murdered child. I had to picture something just a little nicer for this story, but this is all real stuff. Let's pray for all these hearts and souls in pain. God bless you all*

“Men don’t cry. Buck up.”

He swallowed, but it was painful. The thick ball of hard tears was lodged in his throat, occasionally sneaking through his eyes. He sniffed sharply, scrubbing the itchy sleeve of his wool sweater across his face, hiding it in the old material for a moment. Another car was pulling through the gates to the parking lot. A green sedan; a family car. He felt his shoulders convulse in a barely contained sob and the hot tears exploded from his eyes.

He had been online looking for one of those when she told him where she was going.

An infant carseat and bassinet were all ready to be checked out.

He curled himself into the smallest ball possible, shoving his back into the rough stone of the stone and letting himself cry. His father’s words, over ten years old and slurred by his fifth beer, clattered around his head.

“Men don’t cry, kid. Buck up. You’re disgusting.”

His hands dropped into his lap, curling over each other until one arm was cradled by the other. His imagination had never been great, but he had already pictured the tiny person of his own making in his arms so distinctly that he could feel her weight. Or his weight, but he had imagined a girl. Her little sounds filled his ears, unintelligibly trying to make herself understood to the man who would be there for her forever. The man who had dreamed of her first steps, teaching her to ride a bike, her first day of school, her sweet sixteen, her high school prom, walking her down the aisle. She fastened her tiny hand around his strong thumb, holding him close to her.

She had blinked when he sobbed at her feet, begging her not to get in the car.

“They said you might try this. I already made the appointment. It’s my body, so it’s my choice.”

“What about me? I’m part of this, too!”

“Not enough to tell me what to do, sweetheart. Just wait for me to get home. We can watch whatever you want to watch tonight, if you want.”

He had followed on the motorcycle.

The clinic wouldn’t let him inside.

“Sir, we will call the police if we have to.”

So he waited, watching the cars trickle in and out. Some of the women gave him momentary glances from the driver’s window, but quickly looked away. He wondered if their husbands were picturing their own children as they were stolen from them.

He imagined they were. The imagined memories in his head seemed purely instinctual. He was not a father-to-be. He already was one.

There were so many fathers who would never get to meet their children.

A familiar voice whispered at the door. He shoved himself to his feet, pressing himself to the gate. She was taking a brown paper bag from the woman who was walking her to her car. She was crying. The woman turned and walked away. She kept crying, standing by the door of her car.

He wanted to hold her, but he was not allowed inside.

He had no right to his child or his wife.

He pressed his head to the gate. He had not prayed in a long time. There didn’t seem to be a reason to; things were pretty good until now.

“God, don’t know if you remember me, but I really need you now. Just make her look at me. That’s all I need for now. Just let her see me.”

She looked at the gate. She cried harder. He opened his arms through the gate and she ran to him.

“It’s in this bag. The pill is; it’s in here.” She squeezed the brown paper bag in her hands. “I wasn’t scared earlier, but I am now!”

“Honey, let’s go home. Let’s talk, please. Let’s go home.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. This is a big decision, I guess. Let’s go home.”

She was afraid to have a child.

“I am, too, honey. But let’s be afraid together. That’ll make us brave together.”

Her mother wasn’t there for her.

“You’re not your mom. I’m not my dad. We’re not our parents. We’re our child’s parents.”

What if they did something wrong?

He smiled a little. “Than we ask for forgiveness, right? And she can forgive us. She’s a person, right?”

“She?”

“I don’t know. It’s a she in my head.”

“You’ve been thinking about it that much?”

“Since you first told me you were pregnant. You haven’t?”

“I’ve tried not to.”

“Let yourself for a second. Picture her, or him. Think of us as parents. Just for a second.”

She was smiling a little bit. He felt an overwhelming relief. A door opened for healing and trust. They threw away the pill together.

“Promise me you’ll talk to me about these things before you make decisions.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go.”

“No, I wouldn’t have. I would have done exactly this. Sat with you and held your hand and promised to be there for you always and tell you that you will be a wonderful mother and I’m going to be the father who doesn’t go away.”

She cried again, but it was in his arms this time. That felt better. Things were not perfect yet, but there was an opportunity now. His child was safe for now.

"I'll protect you from everything, my loves. I promise."

Comments

This is so sweet and starkly

This is so sweet and starkly honest. I appreciate that you took the time (even 20 minutes) to write about this. Apart from the amazing message, I loved how you wrote it, and I think it's short length was perfect for what this piece is. Thank you for sharing this.

Libby | Thu, 08/06/2020

“The gospel alone is the power of God unto salvation.
Therefore, suffer, yes. Be misunderstood, yes. Be shamed, yes. But do not be ashamed. For the joy set before you, take up your cross, follow Jesus, be shamed and despise the shame!" -- John Piper

Navigation

User login

Please read this before creating a new account.