Whose Choice?
You told me that some girls can just decide. They grow up, fall in love, or not, and then they try for babies, simple as a wish.
But you — when you were pregnant with me — they looked at you like you had done a crime. Not a crime with handcuffs. Worse than that. They looked at you as if your body, disabled, should have known its place, should have said no thank you.
You had a partner, so they let it slide — with stipulations. Like a prisoner allowed to walk the yard because she's good. They watched you. They wrote notes. They asked your partner questions they'd never ask an abled's partner.
And now — you wanted just your coil replaced. That tiny plastic thing inside your womb. But first you had to fight. And who fought whom? Your ex? Your boyfriend? Your own father? They said she needs permission, ask the men.
Muma — they wanted men to sign off on your hormones, on your future, on the coil that sits inside the core of you.
You said no. You fought. You won that one. But other women lose it every day.
I'm learning in my English class that power is not a crown — it's who gets asked, and who gets handed forms, and who can simply say I want a child and no one calls the social.
So here is what I see, Muma, even at eleven: The able world looks away or coos how sweet, she thinks she gets to choose like us. But your body is a hostage in plain sight. And so is mine — because I am your clone.
They're not just watching you. They're practising for me.
| They're practising for me. | Then we'll practise right back. Every kind smile, we'll name it. |
