The Decision

I’m worried about the way the world is going, so I wrote a #flashfiction about it.
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My wife and I have made up our minds. It hasn’t been easy, considering how long we’ve been trying for this baby, but it’s the right decision, fairest for all parties.
My wife’s voice is quiet but strong. “I’d like a termination.” Pride swells inside me. She’s so brave.
The doctor nods, understanding what we’re going through. “It’s hard, but you’re doing the right thing. You won’t regret this.”
Her hand finds mine. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her as much.

We’d been married for five years when we first started trying. We had a big enough house and decent incomes; she didn’t like her job and needed a break. It was time. I’d noticed her staring longingly at her friends’ babies, holding them too tightly and for too long. She’d lock herself in the bathroom and cry, washing her face in an attempt to pretend nothing was the matter.
I wasn’t keen initially, but gradually I came round. I liked the idea of a son I could have a kick around with in the park, a daughter I could spoil rotten. We chose names: Emily if it was a girl, Christopher if it was a boy. I imagined a little life who was a mixture of the two of us, endlessly fascinating.
For whatever reason, nothing happened. We both went for checkups and they couldn’t find anything wrong. It was a mystery. My wife was beside herself; she had dedicated her life to our future child. We didn’t have sex for pleasure any more. We nearly split up.
Suddenly, a miracle. She was violently sick one morning and looked dreadful, but she was triumphant. “I think this might be it,” she said, embracing me fiercely. I had to dash down to the supermarket for a pregnancy test despite the early hour. When the two lines appeared in the window, she shrieked and danced me down the landing. It was the best day of our lives.
A few months into the pregnancy, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t know if she wanted it any more. She called it “it,” even though we knew by then we were expecting a girl. She couldn’t visualise our daughter, couldn’t feel a connection to her even if she cupped her bump and felt her kick. “Maybe I’m an unnatural mother,” she said, tears leaking from her eyes.

Now we’ve had the government mandated scan, everything makes sense. We can’t in conscience bring this child into the world. What quality of life can she have, what can she contribute to society? The future we’d pictured for her - giving her away at her wedding, looking after our grandchildren - has melted away. To be blunt, she’s better off dead. That’s the policy, and it’s difficult to disagree.
For showing up on her scan - like a poisonous snake in a beautiful garden - is the queer gene.