The child who lived

The child who lived

I was conceived in June of 1983, which is why they named me Lộc — "blessing." My aunt was carrying the baby she would later call "Mười Ù" — Fat Ten. In Miền Tây counting there's no "first," so Mười Ù was my aunt's ninth child, and I was my mother's third. My parents looked at my aunt's dire circumstances and understood that having too many children meant you couldn't climb out of hardship: we can't raise him, love. My Má Hai (my grandmother's niece), surely the wisest person in the family at the time, heard the news that my mother was carrying a third child and told the couple to think it through carefully: if you give birth you can't raise him (you already have a boy and a girl, one of each), an abortion isn't easy, and if you don't kill him, you have to raise him really well.
The road to their decision not to kill me was full of trials. My third-eldest brother was born in 1979; if you say it's possible for a couple to sleep together for four years before an accident happens, well, it's not impossible — but I have to believe a lot of regret is what finally pushed them to stop trying to end it. And yet they kept trying, kept taking the pills. One time or several before — who knows how many rounds it took to reach their goal. This time was when they hesitated, when they doubted, when they thought about regret one more time. She had to stop. He stopped her too. If we keep doing this, how long do we keep going? Do enough of it, and how long do we live with the regret for the rest of our lives?

What was injected into my brain was every-second torment: daytime fear, dreams of death every night, dying, an evil state of mind, scheming — keep him but don't let him know, not for his whole life. Hide evil for a lifetime, be evil for a lifetime. Tasting only bitterness, I could still find a few moments of sweetness when compassion spoke up — so bitter, that the little bit of sweetness that came through was unreasonably sweet. Chanting the sutras, praying to the Buddha, searching deep for mercy, finding a little, bowing and begging: please give me more. This light will help me turn around.

I was born. Thank you, mom and dad, for giving me this life. I was given this blessing.

Don't kill him — raise him.

He must be seen as a blessing from heaven.