The Krisana

A short work of fiction

I have always believed I was pro-choice.

That belief felt clean, settled — inherited from empathy rather than ideology.

What I did not know, until much later, was that my mother once intended to abort me. She was on her way to the clinic when her car broke down. She believes that was a sign from God. I don’t know if God exists. But I do know this: being alive feels like a gift. Being here, writing this, feels like a gift.

My life was never perfect. We were poor. There were years shaped more by scarcity than comfort. So when I hear that women should be able to choose abortion because of financial difficulty, I find myself smiling — not unkindly, but honestly. When, exactly, are we ever ready? Especially now. Especially in this… economy.

And yet.

A friend of mine — who will remain unnamed, like this story — was raped. There was no question of keeping the pregnancy. I agreed immediately. Without hesitation. Her situation bore no resemblance to my mother’s. My mother conceived me through a mistake with her boyfriend, who later became her husband. My friend’s body was entered without consent. She was drunk. She was afraid. She did not choose.

Then my certainty began to fracture.

My uncle was recently forced to pay child support for a woman he does not love, for a child he did not want. If a woman is allowed to end a pregnancy, should a man be allowed to end eighteen years of financial obligation? Especially when financial stress is itself cited as justification for abortion. Where, in this, does responsibility begin — and where does it end?

There is also our neighbour, Deborah. She is the kindest person I know. She could not have children of her own, so she adopted. For her, pro-life is not punishment — it is possibility. It is the chance to form a family where biology failed.

But then there are the stories. Films filled with adopted children who feel unwanted, displaced, and damaged. I looked for numbers instead of narratives. Most adoptions — around ninety-two percent — are stable. Still, eight percent of children return to care. Still, adoption carries risks. But then again, so does life. One in five people experience mental illness. One in two will at some point. Are we damaged because we were adopted — or simply because we are human?

I remain pro-choice. Not because it is easy, but because unsafe abortions are not theoretical — they are real, and they harm living women. Yet I don’t know how I would feel if my daughter needed one. I don’t have a daughter. I don’t even have a name for her. But I know that if she wanted to end her life, I would stop her. I would stop her because I love her. Would I not feel something similar about a grandchild she chose not to have?

And still — it is her body. Her choice. Who am I to decide?

I am a man. I know what it means to be a son. What if my son gets someone pregnant and she wants to keep the baby, and he does not? Is there space for his voice?

Maybe the answer is caution.
Maybe it is punishment for those who take without consent.
Maybe it is better education — not just about sex, but about consequence.
Maybe it is support, not judgment, for those who choose to keep a child.

Or maybe this is an argument that does not end. An argument carried by the living, about those who never get the chance to speak — those who remain unresolved, unable to conclude a life that never fully began.

— The Unnamed