Molly Higgins

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What We Owe Each Other

The day I became pregnant, we held each other and watched a man light himself on fire.

We discussed the destruction until we were on the brink of tears. We called our reps and screamed and reshared thousands of images. We giggled and kissed and fucked all night.

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I scroll through images of babies and children who could be my niece and nephew bloodied and bandaged and skin and bones. Next is 40% off dresses in my size, the algorithm already knew my measurements. We cannot stop selling you polyester, sorry the oceans are filled with trash. We must go on.

Women are stitched up after birth, forced to walk dusty miles with their babies strapped to their backs. My friends hold cans of cold beer at Coachella.

Inside my phone, a man gets turned inside out—nothing but pink guts flattened beneath a tank’s tire. I throw up in the toilet and watch the yellow liquid swirl down the drain.

My sister has a nightmare that I get mangled beneath a train, dragged against the tracks until the body that was me is unrecognizable. In the early morning hours, my sister throws herself against my body, needing to touch me, make sure I’m alive. I’m in bed, sleeping in my air conditioned room in Missouri.

I see toddlers with wrapped bandages on their limbs. Without clean water, they have to be cut off before gangrene sets in. I think of my hand, shriveled and black after birth. My own amputation, the sterile hospital room and the anesthesia. A nurse came by every week to rip the bandages and reapply them. My mother had to wait in the yard because her heart couldn’t withstand my blood curdling screams. I’m happy I don’t remember. Now, there aren’t enough bandages for everyone, clean water is scarce. There’s nothing to manage the pain.

I bite into an egg sandwich, crispy bread cuts the roof of my mouth and bright yellow yolk oozes down my arm. I complain about the speed of my Wi-Fi and standstill traffic.

I watch a video of a woman who went through a dozen rounds of IVF hold her miracle baby’s lifeless body in her arms. I think about impossible choices and responsibility and what we owe each other.

I’m surprised at how quickly I feel it. I’m nauseous choking down my breakfast, small pimples dot my forehead like a second puberty. I check my phone often, hoping he’ll check in. I think I have my mind made up. I’m worried that my disabled body won’t be able to care for a newborn. I’m scared to do it alone. I don’t make enough money, the earth is on fire. I’m anxious about whether I’m doing the right thing, if there is such a thing. I wonder if I’m awful for making this decision now. What it says about me, how selfish I am.

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After I got an illegal abortion in Missouri, I sat alone in the tub while the water turned crimson. On my phone, a mother searched for her newborn under the collapsed concrete of what was her home.

This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.

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Banner Art:
Photo by Egor Komarov, Unsplash, 2025