The first few weeks are a blur of joy and low-grade panic. Anh and I dive headfirst into this new chapter—reading every book, logging every symptom, fine-tuning our app to include pregnancy tracking. We tell ourselves if we build the right tools, maybe the unknown will feel less terrifying.
My parents in Vietnam start calling every morning, their voices full of excitement. "Mai ơi, how are you feeling today? Any cravings yet?" (Mai ơi, hôm nay con cảm thêy thế nào? Có thèm ăn gì không?) my mother asks before I’ve even had my tea.
Anh’s parents, more understated, smile through our Sunday video calls. His mom’s already knitting—soft yarn in gender-neutral colors, like hope made tangible.
We start a shared photo album—ultrasounds, little curve of belly, snapshots of ordinary magic. Our siblings roll their eyes, but we don’t care. After everything, this feels like proof: we made it.
And then—at ten weeks—I wake to something cold and bright and unmistakably wrong.
"Anh," I whisper, nudging him, my hand trembling. "Something's wrong." (Có gì đó không ổn.)
Time bends. ER lights. Paper gowns. Cold gel on my belly. Dr. Chen’s expression doesn’t change right away, but I can tell. I already know.
She studies the screen, her voice quiet.
"I'm so sorry, Mai,” she says. "The fetus isn't viable. You're experiencing a miscarriage."
The words land with weight. I grip Anh’s hand like it’s the only solid thing in the room. He squeezes back, but neither of us speaks.
"What... what do we do now?" I manage to speak, barely audible through my tears.
Dr. Chen hesitates. Her posture shifts—shoulders tightening, gaze darting briefly toward the closed door. "Normally, we'd perform a D&C to remove the tissue and prevent infection. However..." She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.
"However, what?" Anh leans forward, his voice tight.
Dr. Chen exhales slowly, choosing her words like they’re landmines. "Due to recent legislation in Texas, we're very limited in how we can intervene in miscarriage cases. The law doesn't distinguish between miscarriage management and elective abortions. If we perform a D&C, we could be sued or lose our medical licenses."
I blink at her, stunned. "But... but I'm already miscarrying. The baby isn't viable. Surely that's different?"
"I'm so sorry. The law is very strict. Our hands are tied." she says softly.
It hits all at once—grief, rage, disbelief. Not only am I losing our child, but the system won’t even let me do it safely.
"So what are our options?" Anh’s voice breaks.
Dr. Chen walks us through the options carefully: "You can continue with the current plan, which means waiting for the miscarriage to complete naturally. We'll monitor you closely for signs of infection or excessive bleeding. Or..." she pauses, choosing her next words with care, "you could travel out of state to receive the necessary care."
I stare at the floor, feeling suddenly very small. The idea of waiting—of bleeding, cramping, wondering if every hour will bring a complication—makes my skin crawl. But traveling? While in pain, while grieving? I can’t even imagine booking a flight, much less navigating a new clinic.
I turn to Anh. "What should we do?" (Chúng ta nên làm gì đây?)
He squeezes my hand. "It's your body, em. Whatever you decide, I'm with you all the way." (Đây là cơ thể của em. Bất kể em quyết định như thế nào, anh cũng sẽ luôn bên em.)
I nod, but the tears come anyway. Neither option feels like care. They feel like endurance tests disguised as choices.
In the quiet that follows, my thoughts drift to our families—my mother’s glowing face on our last video call, the way she held up a tiny pair of booties she’d already bought. I can’t bear the thought of telling them. Of watching that joy crack open.
What should I do?