Week Seven:

Your baby is as big as a blueberry! New brain cells are forming rapidly, so are its arms and legs. Expect that nagging pregnancy nausea and enjoy your fuller breasts.

You blueberry. You tiny, fragile blueberry. What am I going to do with you?

Can I raise you into a decent human being? Can respect and honour and dignity even be taught? I’ve only been taught injustices and spite and frustration. Am I going to be an awful mother? What if you hate me? I can’t survive that. It would kill me.

Have I ever said that to my own father?

Yes. Yes, I have. I remember.

He grabbed my forearm and dragged me out of the principal’s office. His hands were so big—or maybe my arm was that small—they wrapped around the entire circumference with fingers to spare. His strength clamped my veins shut. My tendons grated against supple bone.

He said something. What did he say? I was confused. He had always told me to be proud. So why did he make me apologize to that bully?

I pulled out the only weapon I had then. I mumbled, “I hate you.” He must’ve heard it. My tears clouded the world, so I was spared his expression. How much did I shatter his world? With but a squeaky, trembling voice.

Dad never knew this, but his hand had bruised me. I would look at the blue-purple storm clouds for days. Before his bruise, I never realized how thin my skin was.

Oh. I remember now. “Don’t fight battles you’re going to lose.”

But I could’ve handled that little boy. I could’ve. I think.

Week Eight:

Only seven months left to go! The boy parts (or girl parts) are beginning to develop but it’s too early for the doctor to detect the sex of your baby. Expect headaches, thanks to your increased blood volume!

You are growing too fast. Stop it. How can you already be a boy or girl? If you’re a girl, how can I protect you from all the eyes and words and hands that I couldn’t even protect myself from?

If you’re a boy—no. I can’t. Even just imagining it drills at my eyeballs and teeth. Can I teach you to hold back your rage and strength? To unfurl your fists and declaw the glint in your eyes?

I promise not to raise you with fear. Though I may be in fear. Like how I was with my own father. No. I wasn’t scared of him. I was scared of his strength and how it would split the seams of the walls at home.

I remember tiptoeing around the carcass of the crashes and shatters and clangs. The walls, the frames, the windowpanes were unrecognizable when our chairs and books and plates became the legless chairs, the spineless books, the bloody plates.

I picked up a shard, blood already glazed and hardened around its edges. It reminded me of dad holding up my bleeding baby tooth, a piece of floss dangling around its crown. Him, grinning. Me, wailing.

So, I kept it, wrapped its sharp fragility in one of his ties—the one he was always looking for. It reminded me of many, many things. And I prayed that reminder would keep me safe.

Week Nine:

Your body is working overtime to create the placenta, the lifeline between your blood supply and your baby. No wonder you feel exhausted!

You are leeching my life away. Any youth I have left, you slurp it up. You little parasite. My little parasite. Every heartbeat with you feels like a period. Dot. Dot. Beep. Beep. Tap. Tap.

I remember another bedridden moment.

Through the darkness of my eyelids, the sounds of his nervousness seeped through. Tap, tap of his loafers. Smack, smack of his lips.

He must’ve known I was faking sleep. But he didn’t disturb me. In the white noise of a semi-private hospital room, we simmered. Him in guilt. Me in blame. I blamed him—the first man in my life, the man who would always protect me. I blamed myself too. Since when did I turn helpless? Since when did I roll over and offer my belly to the world? To a gaggle of drunk boys with a merciless sense of humour and a curiosity for cruelty?

It took a while to see my own face without the black eye, the red neck, the violet cheekbones. Even when the sunset faded from my flesh, my body—this female body—reminded me: I am a target, and I am fragile.

No matter how much time has passed, there are a few moments that will never heal. His grip around my arm that afternoon in elementary school. The first slam of my bedroom door. His guilt congealing my respect into a tough crust of a scar that day in the hospital room.

I wish I said it: was this what you meant by don’t fight battles you’re going to lose?

I promise you my little one. You will learn to fight for your body and your life. You will be strong. You will command respect. You will win your battles.

Week Ten:

Congratulations, your baby has graduated from embryo to fetus! Bones and cartilage, knees, and ankles are forming this week. Your baby bump may be starting to show this week too!

You are a tiny, soft skeleton, coffined in my womb. When I’m throwing up, I half-expect a bone to climb my throat. I eat more than I ever have. I sob every time I eat an egg or veal. Even baby spinach makes me shed a tear. I must nourish you, fill the sea inside with waves of courage and tides of toughness. Even though I can’t hold back my tears, I keep the food down. The wish to be strong vicariously through you swells higher every day.

When will you show yourself to me? I long to touch your supple, soft skin. I can’t wait to meet you.

Week Eleven:

Your baby is starting to look more human, with little fingers and toes! Don’t forget to add baby nail clippers to your baby shopping list!

Why did I dream that? That awful, awful day. Is it infecting you with horror too? I pray this memory hasn’t been implanted inside of you.

In the dream, all of father’s friends, one by one, hugged me. I asked them not to, but they continued to touch me. Their faces were but fake smiles and phony tears. Over their shoulders, I saw his matte pupils, watching me. His funeral portrait. Hollow. Heartless. His gaze pointed a finger at me. His friends changed, barely looking human. Shadows of selfish adults. The lines and colour of his portrait melted into ashes. Human ashes. I saw remnants of burnt bone and… that broken plate. Shiny and sharp. The Corelle logo still crisp and blue.

What does it mean? Maybe I should book a check-up, just in case.

Week Twelve:

If you haven’t already, you may be able to hear your baby’s heartbeat at your next appointment. Prepare the tissues!

Another dream. This time, I was in a hospital bed. He was crying, holding my hand, and then… he thanked me.

He thanked me. Through sobs, he whispered, “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you.”

A father’s tears are always disconcerting.

Why? Why was he thanking me?

Even now, my hand feels unsettlingly warm. And I know I’m being superstitious but I’m careful not to touch my belly—you—with that hand.

Week Thirteen:

This is the final week of your first trimester! Vocal cords are now forming, the first step to hearing your baby say, “I love you, mommy!”

I feel empty. But heavy. Is my body a womb or a coffin?

Something’s wrong. I don’t know why but I itch. Everywhere. That tickle of new skin stretching over a wound invades every pore.

Make it stop.

Week Fourteen:

Welcome to your second trimester! This week, fully developed genitals can be detected so it may be time to finally choose a name for your little boy or girl!

It isn’t a sudden realization. No exact moment. But I now know. Now I understand.

He—father—dad—you thanked me for surviving, didn’t you? And survival wasn’t your low expectation of me. It was your hope. You knew, didn’t you, how dangerous the world was—is still. And the weapon you chose to give me was not sharpness but softness. Because you nor I can win this battle.

So, you thought at least I could survive. And not all victories are glorious.

You’ll never know this dad, but your victory is a prison. You’ll never know, not because you’ve already passed away, but because you’re a father. A man. Because you loved me.

I wish you could know that I forgive you. That prison was the best you could do.

Can you forgive me? For aborting your granddaughter?

Kyungseo Min is a Korean-Canadian writer, playwright, and performer. She writes for video games during the day and crafts plays and short stories by night. When writing starts to ache at her joints, she performs various genres of dance. She focuses on challenging Western standards of storytelling with her heritage and expertise in Asian narrative philosophies.

This episode was sponsored by:

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(28) Kyungseo Min: Week Fourteen