Ding and I have been married for six years. In those six years, we had five children. One after the other, without a break. We are not rich—I wouldn't even say "just right." His income is just enough for rice, milk, diapers, electricity bills, and the occasional medicine. Nothing more. Nothing for himself.
Me? I am the "light of the home" who has gradually carried the weight of everything. I am the mother, the wife, the cook, the laundress, the one who wipes away tears and sweat—but I have no money of my own. I also have no voice. Even though I want to breathe, it feels like I have to say goodbye.
I’ve wanted to try family planning for a long time. I once said maybe we could use pills or the calendar method, or even just condoms. But his response was, “You don’t need to control your body. It’s God’s decision.” He said those things aren’t womanly. I silently cried.
Until the sixth came. I no longer needed to take a pregnancy test—my body already knew the signs. Back pain, vomiting, morning dizziness. One morning, while I was cooking porridge for the kids, I just sat on the floor and cried blankly. I didn’t want to be angry at the child inside me, but I was angry at my own helplessness.
That evening, while he was washing his hands before eating, I approached him. “I have something to tell you,” I said. He just nodded. I didn’t know how to start. “I’m pregnant again.” His face lit up, as if he had won a gamble. “That’s great! We’ve got quite the crew now. Five kids, and now another one. You’re lucky!”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to say: "This isn't luck. I am so exhausted." But I just smiled instead. Fake. Empty inside.
For days, I couldn’t find peace. I couldn’t sleep. My chest always felt heavy, while beside me, he slept soundly, unaware of the storm raging in my mind. Until one afternoon, while the children were napping, I went out. I had a neighbor friend whom I once asked about medicine for "menstrual regulation." She was also the one who gave me information on where to buy it.
That night, I entered the bathroom, carrying a small piece of paper with three tablets inside. I was crying as I took them, my hands trembling. I kept repeating to myself, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just really don’t want to drown."
A few days passed, I started bleeding. It wasn’t normal. I could feel that this was it. The edges of the bathroom darkened, the water was cold, the surroundings were silent—but inside me, it felt like something broke.
I can’t describe what I felt—fear, because something bad might happen to my body. Relief, because it felt like a weight was lifted off me. But above all, guilt. Until now, I can’t find peace within myself.
She doesn’t know. She has no idea. She didn’t notice my paleness, my silence. Or maybe, she just chose not to notice. With every night we lay beside each other, I sink deeper into the question: Should I tell her?
I want to tell the truth. I want to lighten the burden. But I’m scared—what if he shouts at me, what if he calls me a sinner? Or what if he distances himself from me? Yet despite the fear, there’s a part of me that wants to be honest. Because I didn’t do it to hurt him.
There are days when I want to write a letter for him. Leave it on the table while he sleeps. A letter that explains everything. A letter that hopefully won't change his love, but provides clarity on how heavy the burden I carry is.
But for now, I remain silent. Choosing to stay quiet to preserve the remaining peace at home. But someday, maybe I can. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to stand in front of him and say: “Love, I am not a bad mother. I am only human. I just got tired. I just got scared.”
