The Biology of a Mother’s Love
I love my mother, but if I ever see her again, I’ll kill her.
Perhaps I love my mother because of biology, but biology can be hacked these days, so who can trust that anymore?
I remember how she would kiss my head when she placed my lunch in front of me, or how we would draw pictures together. I’m even named after her. Her name is Andrea, and I’m Dre. She said it was because I am a part of her, which I thought was sweet until it wasn’t. Still, she was always kind when it was easy, and that’s not nothing.
My father died in the Great East Coast Floods of 2042, along with about 4,000 other people. I was eight, and we were living in Baltimore, which was completely submerged at street level. Fortunately, our apartment was on the fifth floor, so everything survived, except my father.
The way my mother liked to tell it, she had had a migraine the day of the flood, and my father insisted on getting her medication. She thought it sounded romantic. I thought so too, until I overheard her telling my friend’s mother the story.
“The officials were saying that the storm surge would be twenty feet, and you let him go out?” Martha’s mother looked at mine as if she were a monster, and I began to wonder.
“You’re not hanging out with Martha anymore,” my mother said on the way home. “Her mother is obnoxious.”
When I turned eighteen, my mother insisted I have my eggs frozen. Everyone was doing it, not just for fertility but also because they could be used in anti-aging treatments, something about the stem cells made it work. Still, I wasn’t sure.
“I don’t even know if I want children,” I said as my mother forwarded me the appointment email.
“These eggs are not just babies. They’re natural resources.” She said it like my ovaries were cobalt mines. “Every second you wait, you lose healthy eggs. It’s all downhill from here. I should know, it’s too late for me.”
The fertility clinic was lovely, with enormous flower arrangements in the cool gray waiting room. My mother was with me every step of the way, holding my hand as I fell asleep, and she was there when I woke up. She paid for cryostorage, which wasn’t cheap, and I left the clinic thinking how lucky I was to have such a thoughtful mother. Still, it felt strange, like part of me was missing, even if it was a part of me that I didn’t particularly want. I also felt a little violated, but that was silly because I couldn’t even remember the procedure.
In the end, they harvested 113 eggs, enough for a herd of children. I was exhausted but relieved, thinking that was the end of it, so I was shocked when my mother suggested I go through the process again.
“Why would I need more?” I laughed. “I might not want any children.”
“Nonsense, you’ll thank me when you’re older. I wish I had been able to freeze my eggs, but I was too busy being a single mother.”
“Don’t be crazy. You look amazing.” She did look great. The crow’s feet around her eyes were barely visible, and the lines next to her mouth had vanished.
“I got a facial,” my mother said, glancing in the mirror.
“I heard the process might be bad for you.” I had read articles about the long-term side effects, which were brutal.
“Are you some conspiracy theorist now?” My mother waved her hand as if shooing a fly, and I knew I had lost.
So, back to the clinic we went, my mother again by my side. This time, though, something felt off. When my mother held my hand, she clutched it with desperation, and the nurses looked at us with disapproving glares. More than once, they asked my mother to sign documents in another room. She refused, telling them that she couldn’t leave my side.
The nurses whispered in the hallway, their eyes shifting from my mother to me. One was tall and thin, and the other short and round. Both were dressed in gray scrubs with buns at the nape of their necks.
As I sat in that hospital bed, anxiety churned in my gut. The nurses entered with an IV bag.
“Have you used the bathroom?” the tall nurse asked.
“I’m good.”
“You should.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me upright, as a draft blew up the back of my hospital gown.
“This one’s out of order. You’ll have to use the one over here.” The woman guided me toward the hallway door.
“Where are you taking her?” my mother called, standing.
“Ma’am, you need to review these documents.” The other nurse blocked my mother with her solid body. Across the hall, I was dragged into an empty room.
“You need to get the hell out of here,” the nurse said. Her arm held a bundle of clothing.
“What?” My heart pounded, and I felt sick.
“You shouldn’t do this again,” the woman said. “It’s not good for you.”
“I thought it was safe.”
“It could cause infertility, cancer, and worse,” she shook her head. “Didn’t you watch the videos?”
“What videos?” My mother had access to my device, but she wouldn’t have deleted anything, would she?
“I figured you hadn’t. They’re pretty graphic.”
“I don’t get it. Why would my mom want me to?”
“Your mother is using them for her own anti-aging treatments. You signed away your rights.”
“I don’t believe you. My mother wouldn’t let me do this if it were unsafe.” I wanted to cry.
“You co-own the eggs. She can use as many as she wants. They shouldn’t have taken so many last time, and they shouldn’t be doing it again.”
“How could she?” I still couldn’t believe my mother would put me in danger. Wasn’t that against her very biology?
“You need to leave before security comes.” The nurse shoved a pair of sweatpants into my hands.
“They can’t force me.” My heart ached at the thought.
“You’ve already given consent.” She shook her head. “They’ll put you out before you can blink.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Acid tears stung my eyes. “I have no place to go.” My mother controlled every aspect of my life.
“We know a lawyer who helps with this stuff.” The woman tapped her device with mine, and a name appeared on the screen. “I have to go.”
She shoved my device into my hand and left. I scrambled into the clothes, nearly falling over the leg. My hands shook, and I felt lightheaded, but rage ignited in my chest. Something deep in my chest felt it was true. The “facial,” my mother’s obsession with my ovaries, finally made sense. I slipped out into the hall, the dim lights looking more sinister than calming. As I reached the end of the hallway, my mother appeared at the other end, accompanied by two burly men.
“Honey, stop! It’s for the best!” she waved.
My slippers fell off as I ran toward the stairwell. The security guards pounded toward me, but I yanked the exit open and darted through. I looked around for something to block the door and was rewarded with a fire-suppressing drone hanging on the wall. I grabbed it and wedged it into the door handle, jamming the door shut. When I blasted out the emergency exit, the alarm screeched, but I was free. I ran, pushing past pedestrians as guards exited the building. I expected the thugs to follow, but they stopped when they saw people staring. A young man was recording us with his device. Good. Let everyone see.
I made it to the lawyer, disheveled and heartbroken. We filed an injunction to block my mother’s access to the eggs and filed a lawsuit against the clinic. I spent my first night away from her in a cheap hotel room, crying and alone, but finally safe.
Quicker than I thought possible, they settled, as monsters tend to do, and I had enough money to start a new life, far from my mother.
After the settlement, she sent me an email. Expecting an apology or explanation, I opened it.
Dear Dre,
You ungrateful little…
I closed the email and blocked her. I don’t care if she dies alone. She had put me in danger to benefit herself, and I couldn’t forgive that. Had she asked, I might have done it, but it didn’t occur to her to ask, because why would she ask for something she assumed was already hers?
In the end, I kept the eggs, though I’ll never let her touch them. I may need a new organ someday, or perhaps even a child, though I highly doubt the latter.
About the Author
Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative fiction living just outside Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their grumpy dog. A full list of her publications can be found at www.JuliaRajagopalan.com.