My mother's body was frail, and she went through hell to conceive me. The doctors said I wouldn't make it, but she insisted on keeping me. Hormone shots, nutrient injections—they were a daily ritual. After each one, I would stir uncomfortably in her womb, a wave of sickness washing over me. Even then, my mother would grit her teeth through her own pain to soothe me. "Be a good baby," she’d whisper. "You have to grow up healthy and strong." Her morning sickness was severe. She'd eat, throw up, and force herself to eat again, all so that I would be healthy. To make it easier for her, I learned to stay perfectly still, no matter how much I hurt. Until I heard her ask the doctor: "Doctor, can we induce the birth soon? Her sister is waiting for the umbilical cord blood and bone marrow to save her life." And just like that, I understood. My mother didn't love me. She only loved my cord blood and my marrow. Rather than become a living organ bank for my sister, I'd rather take my chances and be reborn. … The moment my mother asked if I could be cut out of her, I unleashed a tempest in her womb. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, compliant way I'd been growing. My mother felt the full, long-forgotten force of a baby's kick. She lay weakly in bed as my father's voice, laced with concern, filled the room. "This baby's been so quiet, never bothering you. Why such a commotion all of a sudden?" My mother’s voice was sharp, her teeth clenched. "This one's a little demon, here to collect a debt. If it wasn't for Pearl, I never would have kept it." "Pearl was so good," she went on, her tone softening with pride and affection. "I barely felt a thing when I had her." But I was good, too. Wasn't I? My mother's body was a hostile environment, and I was in constant discomfort, my tiny form aching all over. But I endured it. I grew quietly inside her. She quizzed my father about my sister's condition, asking about every little detail, down to what she ate. My father answered her with equal care. It was as if they had both forgotten about the child still inside her. I listened in silence. I told myself that if she said she loved me, just once, I would stay and be her child, even if my existence was born of calculation. The suffering she endured for me was real, after all. I waited and waited. Finally, she spoke of me. Her voice was bright with excitement. "The doctor said this one's liver, kidneys, and heart are all developing perfectly. All my suffering wasn't for nothing. Now, even if Pearl's kidneys fail someday, she'll have a replacement." My world went silent. I felt my breath hitch in my nonexistent lungs. I wanted to cry. At only six months in the womb, I understood a brutal truth. My mother didn't love me at all. I wanted to tell her that I had waited in line for eighty years for a chance to be reborn, that I had waited so, so long to be her child. I wanted to tell her how much I hurt, how sick I felt every single day, but how I forced myself to absorb every nutrient, to grow strong, just for the chance to be born. But my luck had run out. The nurse came in with another needle. This one went straight into the belly. Every time I saw that sharp point pierce her skin, I would recoil in fear, but I always held still for my mother's sake. Not this time. I didn't want to be her child anymore. I aimed a powerful kick right at her belly. She cried out in pain. Seeing the bulge on her stomach, the nurse hesitated, needle in hand. "Do it," my mother hissed. "I won't be defeated by this little monster in my own body." Her voice rose to a shriek. "What are you waiting for? If I can't deliver this baby, you can kiss your job goodbye!" I thrashed and kicked, but they found their moment and plunged the needle in. A wave of drowsiness washed over me. My limbs went slack. My mother was drenched in sweat, panting through the pain. Over and over, she chanted a name. "Pearl... Pearl..." As if the name itself gave her strength. Then, my father gasped. "Blood! You're bleeding!" My mother was rushed into the emergency room. I felt so sleepy, so heavy, as if I could drift away from this world at any second. It was for the best. I could get back in line and try again. Mother, a child who isn't loved should never be born at all. I was still inside her. I overheard the doctors and nurses. My mother had performed a miracle, they said. She had used some kind of superhuman willpower to keep me from miscarrying. The price was that she would be confined to bed until my birth, enduring three hormone injections every day. She didn't care. All she cared about was when I could be delivered. My sister's condition had worsened. She needed my cord blood and marrow. To ensure I would be viable when they cut me out at seven months, my mother began consuming a litany of supplements. Bitter herbal tonics, thick, gelatinous soups, anything and everything that was rich in nutrients. I hated the taste of it all. I kicked upwards, a sharp jab right into her stomach. "Ugh—" Everything she had just forced down came right back up. But my mother was relentless. She had someone bring another bowl. The moment she drank, I kicked. She vomited until there was nothing left but bile. I was exhausted, my kicks turning into feeble waves in the amniotic fluid, but she still didn't give up. She played a recording of my sister singing. Listening to that voice, she choked down bowl after bowl of the bitter medicine. In that moment, a venomous hatred for the sister I’d never met bloomed inside me. Why did they love her so much? What had I done wrong? Why should I have to sacrifice everything for her? I refused to live that life. I gathered what little strength I had left. When I was too weak to kick, I used my fingernails, scratching at the walls of her womb. She clutched her stomach with one hand, her mouth with the other, writhing on the bed. Her cries were so agonizing that a small crowd gathered outside her room. "I know her," someone whispered. "She's been here on bed rest since she got pregnant. Must have spent a fortune, all to save this baby." "And you know why? Her first child has a blood disease. This baby is just for the cord blood and marrow." "Poor thing. Condemned before it's even born." Hearing their words, I fought harder. Back when I was waiting in the afterlife, I'd met other souls like me, conceived to be a cure. One of them told me his story. His life had been a nightmare. Constant blood draws, a strictly controlled diet—he existed solely for his older sibling. The marrow extractions were so frequent that his body gave out. He died at seven and was back in line with the rest of us. But he was happy. "It's great," he'd said. "Being dead means no more operating tables. This time, I'm going to be born into a good family. I'm going to eat fried chicken and soda." A shudder went through me. That life was too terrifying to imagine. I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't be born into a family like this. "Mommy!" A little girl with no hair appeared at the door, held by my father. She was tiny and frail, a ghost of a child. It was the first time I saw my sister. The sight of her seemed to fill my mother with a new strength. She forced a smile. "Pearl, what are you doing here? Did you eat properly today?" The two of them spoke with an intimacy that left me on the outside, listening quietly, imagining it was me. Imagining my mother stroking my face, holding me with aching tenderness, blaming herself for not giving me a stronger body. My sister touched my mother's belly. "Mommy, now that you have another baby, will you stop loving me?" My mother shook her head emphatically. "You are my only child. This one in my belly was only created for you. You will always be my precious girl." My sister looked down at me, her face clouded with worry. "But what if the baby is healthier than me? If I had a healthy body, Mommy and Daddy wouldn't have to worry so much, right?" Tears welled in my father's eyes at her maturity. He wrapped them both in his arms, his voice thick with emotion. "Never. Even if we have other children, you will always be the most important one." They cried on the outside. I cried on the inside. I would not follow their script. I would make sure their plans came to nothing. I grabbed the umbilical cord and bit down. Hard. "Ah!" A cold sweat soaked my mother's clothes. After my father took my sister out of the room, she screamed at her belly. "You little monster! Do you know how much your sister is suffering waiting for you? You keep fighting me! What if you damage the quality of the cord blood? All my suffering will be for nothing!" What baby wants to be born with a price tag on its head? I hated my sister. I hated my mother. I hated my father. I wrapped the cord around myself and spun. The pain was so intense my mother could no longer scream. I thought, after all that, surely I would be gone. But my mother's superpower was formidable. She grew weaker, but I remained stubbornly alive inside her. "See? Nothing like Pearl," I heard her say to a visitor one day. "When I was carrying Pearl, it was so peaceful. I never suffered like this. But this one..." She trailed off, aware of her audience. I knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to curse me. The difference between love and its absence was so painfully clear. I was almost seven months old, and she still hadn't given me a name. I was just "the baby," or "this one." Only on a good day would she call me "my baby." Panic began to set in. Seven months was fast approaching. My parents had already decided. At seven months, they would cut me out. My life and death would no longer be my own to decide. The doctor had ordered my mother on strict bed rest. She couldn't even get up to use the bathroom. Any movement, he'd warned, could risk the pregnancy. His tone was severe. My mother was confused. "But you said the fetus was healthy. Why is it suddenly so critical?" she demanded, her voice rising with agitation. "I've followed all your instructions! I haven't missed a single injection! How can you say you can't save it?" I was my sister's only hope. The doctor explained that I was never viable to begin with; I was being kept alive by sheer medical intervention. The news sent my mother into another rage. She cursed me for being weak, for being useless. But soon, she had no time for me. My sister had a relapse and was moved to the ICU. Ignoring the doctor's warnings, my mother got out of bed. My parents stood outside the glass doors of the intensive care unit, watching my sister. My mother's grief was a palpable thing, a heavy wave that washed over me, but all I felt was annoyance. I was just an innocent baby caught in their tragedy. I didn't want to live for my sister. The sight of Pearl, so still and lifeless in that bed, finally broke her. She grabbed the doctor, her voice frantic. "Can you deliver the baby now? My daughter can't wait any longer!" The doctor was horrified. He tried to reason with her. "The baby's lungs aren't fully developed. A C-section now... the chances of survival are incredibly low." A flicker of hesitation crossed my mother's face, but it was gone in an instant. Her eyes saw only her dying daughter. "I don't care if the baby lives or dies," she spat. "Even if it dies, I won't hold you responsible. I just want my daughter to be safe!" "This," she said, stabbing a finger at her own belly, "is its only reason for existing!" My father pulled her into his arms, stopping her from hurting herself. How noble. What a great mother's love. If only it wasn't at my expense. My resolve hardened. I could not, would not, be born. I had to get back in line, quickly. Maybe I'd get a better chance next time. After much persuasion from the doctor and my father, my mother abandoned the idea of an immediate C-section. But she was a nervous wreck, checking the fetal heart monitor every hour to make sure I was stable. This made my plan much more difficult. Every time I tried to wrap the cord around my neck, the machine would blare an alarm. "Fetal heart rate dropping! Fetal distress! Prep for surgery!" I would quickly let go, terrified. But I knew a secret: if the host body is weak, the parasite cannot survive. So I waited. I stayed awake all day, and at night, when she tried to sleep, I would dance and spin inside her womb. Time and again, I thought I was on the brink of death, but she would have the doctors give her another injection. The needle was thick and menacing, but she wouldn't even flinch. The drugs pulled me back from the edge of oblivion, over and over again. Sometimes, she would look at her belly with the same loving gaze she gave my sister. But she would always catch herself. "It's just the hormones," she'd mutter. "I still love Pearl more. Pearl is my real child." With the help of modern medicine, I remained stubbornly alive. As my seventh month approached, the smiles on my mother's face grew more frequent. One day, her sister—my aunt—came to visit. My mother took her hand and placed it on her belly. She had grown frighteningly thin, claiming I had drained all her life force. I disagreed. I was still very small. Feeling the large hand on her belly, I placed my own tiny hand against it from the inside. My aunt gasped in delight. "He just held my hand! Look, do you think he likes me?" My mother just gave her a cold, empty look. My aunt hesitated. "This isn't right," she said softly. "Pearl is a wonderful girl, but you shouldn't have to sacrifice another child to save her." She loved Pearl, too, but I was her blood as well. The thought of my future—endless marrow extractions, perhaps even organ harvesting—made her feel sick. Was this really the right thing to do? My mother's eyes turned to ice. "I gave him life. He will do as I say." "If it weren't for his sister, he wouldn't even have the chance to be born. He should be grateful." My aunt looked at my mother as if she were a stranger. "He was just unlucky," my mother said quietly. "For Pearl, anything is worth it." She rubbed her aching back, her hand resting on her belly. Her expression was unreadable, almost sad. I didn't believe in luck. My fate was my own to decide.
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