Free The Upside of Down by Susan Biggar Page A

brother or sister? I feel in my heart as though you have killed Aidan …
    Others tell us face-to-face that this is a mistake we will regret. They will never know the weight we already carry, the worry and the struggle to give our child the best. Even if they did, it’s unlikely it would sway them. We are visited by members of the leadership team. They ask me to give up my involvement with the youth and they communicate the message ‘some people are upset by your decision’.
    Oh really, I hadn’t noticed.
    Darryl had felt it was important that we were open about our decision. He naively assumed there would be room in this community for a thoughtful discussion about a complicated issue. He was wrong. But he takes the heat of the unexpected barrage better than I do. (Having said that, they’re all writing exclusively to me and not him.) I write livid replies in my mind lying awake at night, the anger burning through my already strained psyche. By morning Darryl convinces me to rip the imaginary letters to shreds, reclaiming the fragments of my peace of mind and letting the fury go. He’s right, I know he is. I don’t have the strength to fight battles with them. I have to protect myself and my family.
    My sister Ann phones from California.
    â€˜Remember you’re the only one who has to live with this. No one else is in your shoes. Nobody else matters right now.’
    I burn her words into my brain.
    The weekend after the problems erupt, a carload of Darryl’s friends from Auckland trek eight hours south to the capital to help us paint our house. The men are kind and sensitive though at a loss to know how to respond. So, instead of talking, we paint. It’s a creamy white for the weatherboards, deep green for the windows and crimson red for bits of trim. The days are focused and task-oriented, ‘Can I borrow the sander?’ ‘Are you done with the ladder?’ ‘Watch out for the bucket!’ The generosity of their presence—their paint-flecked T-shirts, gritty sweat and aching triceps—is therapeutic for Darryl and me.
    Early the following week, on the heels of the letters, the phone calls begin. These people are more oblique than the letter writers, not so overtly damning. The calls generally follow a similar pattern. ‘How are you doing? This must have been a very difficult time. But I have to tell you that I disagree with your decision …’
    Why do they have to tell me? I really don’t need a running tally as I realise that my approval ratings are probably at an all-time low. It seems people have a need to express their disapproval, get it off their chest, clear their conscience, as though they have been tainted by our actions, their theology muddied by our transgression. Is that their motivation? No matter how hard they push, we can’t change our minds and undo the whole thing, like dashing back into Tiffany’s to return a ridiculously impulsive purchase.
    One woman is initially very supportive, offering her daughter’s babysitting services and baking us a cake. However, a few days later, presumably after conversations with others, she does an about-face on the ethics of abortion (and compassion). These are people who I knew well, even considered some as friends. No matter how hard I try to move on, their rejection is painful. Layers of confidence and optimism peel away, leaving a vulnerable core exposed. The most personal and painful decision we have ever faced has been placed on the table for dissection and discussion.
    I stop answering the phone.
    Thankfully, my greatest fear—that God might somehow abandon me—has not come true. I am sustained by an enduring love, one I can’t describe or understand exactly. With it, I can almost push past the judgment of others.
    About this time the other half of the church steps up. They leave flowers on the doorstep, drop meals by unexpectedly and make offers of babysitting