At five months my fetus, Baby, was carved out of me, a little pink blob, eyes closed, although I learned that she could see. She looked slightly bigger than a baby gerbil. They kept her in the hospital, under rapid growth. Her chance of survival, fifty-fifty.

A month earlier, Baby had decided to file for emancipation, and the West Texas Judge, who might or might not have gone to law school, declared her emancipated and divorced her from me. Her’s was one of the first cases. I tried to reason with my fetus. She would have fewer brain cells than average humans. Her life span might be short and painful. But neither fetus nor Judge understood reason. Under Texas law, a fetus has more rights than unwed mothers.

I told myself I did not care for her, that she made her own “bed,” and others cautioned me to not form a bond since her survival chances were not good. Yet something in me said, if I don’t visit, Texas would kill her with neglect. I did not give her a proper name, just called her Baby. But I did visit her.

Baby and I soon became attached, not physically, of course. She began to talk, making a gurgling noise that could be transcribed. She told me her favorite color is red.

“Is it because you can see it more brightly than other colors? I asked.

“Fuck off,” she replied. 

I bought her a red mobile and a reddish teddy bear. I filled her room with red balloons. I read to her children’s stories and fairy tales, and she made comments that astounded me. Like, why did Hansel and Gretel not kill the stepmother instead of the chocolate witch? Cinderella should have asked her husband to jail the wicked stepmother and the step sisters. I thought Baby was destined for Harvard—if, of course, she survived.

Baby’s brain grew, but her body refused to grow. She was born eleven inches, now, fifteen months later, she is only twenty inches. I read Thumbelina to her at the hospital, and I asked her if she wanted to be a Thumbilina, and again she said, “Fuck off.” Taught by AI, she knew and spewed swear words like tap water. To this day I regret reading her the Thumbelina. Fifteen months after birth, Baby was allowed to come home, enclosed in a capsule-like pink box.

My six-year-old son, Akash, wanted to take Baby to school. I was hesitant, but Baby said, “Of course, I would love to go.”

I work at a school and had made arrangements for her to stay with me, in my classroom. Baby fit right in, smiling at the kids, introducing herself as “Baby for now.” She even sang a song, Itsy Bitsy Spider. I did not realize she was musical, but she kept the tune perfectly. Inside her little pink music-box, I imagined she would point her toe and dance.

Instead Baby coughed and suddenly stopped breathing. Someone had shoved a gum into her mouth. Baby was turning blue. I fished out the gum, and she began breathing again, but slowly. I needed to rush her to the hospital.

Baby was admitted. I sat in the hospital waiting room hoping-crying-cursing-praying that Baby would be home soon, Baby would grow old, Baby would go to College, have a normal life. She so deserved it. Instead, I was told that Baby’s CHIP insurance was suspended. Apparently, as a teacher I make too much money. But Baby would require constant care, something I could not afford on my salary.