That only a mother

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‘That Only a Mother’ is a science fiction short story, written by Judith Merril, as a response to the increased infanticide, occurring after World War II. The story creates an illusion that people in the world are killing babies. The author shows that fathers are committing infanticide. As a result of military actions, so many children are being born with defects, caused by lingering radiation from atomic bombs. What makes things even worse, fathers prefer killing their deformed babies instead of bringing them up. Probably, the catastrophic consequences of the war inspired the author to focus on the gloomy topic of infanticide and parents’ responsibility. It is believed that men in most cases fight wars to protect their homes and families, but here, children are in danger imposed by their own fathers.

The story is set around wartime, when an atomic bomb was dropped, and military men were exposed to harmful radiation of increasingly high intensity. Infantile deformity is on the rise, and infanticide is more often being detailed in the press. This undoubtedly influences the public and causes extensive spread of worries regarding nuclear war. People are convinced that science has taken a wrong course.

Despite all these bad occurrences, Margaret, the heroine of the story, happily expects the arrival of her firstborn child. She puts a lot of effort to avoid press releases and any reports about infanticide. The woman is also very optimistic and believes that her child will not be tainted by deformity whatsoever. Margaret’s husband, named Hank, a designer of weapons, is very busy with wartime production. He is frequently away from home. The man is also absent during the pregnancy of his wife. Certainly, Margaret is disturbed by fears of bringing forth a mutant. She is also terrified by stories about infanticide, performed by fathers of deformed children. Luckily, she goes through a successful pregnancy and gives birth to a newborn who is developing rapidly. Margaret has a daughter, named Henrietta.

When Hank returns home, he finds an extremely intelligent girl who speaks in complete sentences at the age of ten months. This is the first time when Hank meets his daughter. She can talk and sing at such an early age. However, the child is shockingly deformed (“Judith Merril, “That Only a Mother”(1947)”). She has neither arms nor legs. Despite this, Margaret is so proud of Henrietta; she thinks that the girl is wonderful, although, there is an offhand remark that nurses can hardly say whether the child is a male or a female. Nevertheless, Margaret cannot see her girl as a mutant but only as a brilliant young person. For her, the girl is a child prodigy. On the other hand, Hank realizes that Henrietta is deformed. Contrary to Margaret’s bright perspectives, Hank views the child as a wormlike creature. His wife disagrees strongly; she is in a deep denial that the girl is a monster. Consequently, Hank takes the child and strangles her to death.

That Only a Mother

Contents

Disclaimer

This story was written in 1948 by Judith Merril and I take no credit for it. I am simply uploading my favorite short story to share with you.

The Story

Margaret reached over to the other side of the bed where Hank should have been. Her hand patted the empty pillow, and then she came altogether awake, wondering that the old habit should remain after so many months. She tried to curl up, cat-style, to hoard her own warmth, found she couldn’t do it anymore, and climbed out of bed with a pleased awareness of her increasingly clumsy bulkiness.

Morning motions were automatic. On the way through the kitchenette, she pressed the button that would start breakfast cooking – the doctor had said to eat as much breakfast as she could – and tore the paper out of the facsimile machine. She folded the long sheet carefully to the “National News” section, and propped it on the bathroom shelf to scan while she brushed her teeth.

No accidents. No direct hits. At least none that had been officially released for publication. Now, Maggie, don’t get started on that. No accidents. No hits. Take the nice newspaper’s word for it.

The three clear chimes from the kitchen announced that breakfast was ready. She set a bright napkin and cheerful colored dishes on the table in a futile attempt to appeal to a faulty morning appetite. Then, when there was nothing more to prepare, she went for the mail, allowing herself the full pleasure of prolonged anticipation, because today there would surely be a letter.

There was. There were. Two bills and a worried note from her mother: “Darling. Why didn’t you write and tell me sooner? I’m thrilled, of course, but, well, one hates to mention these things, but are you certain the doctor was right? Hank’s been around all that uranium and thorium or whatever it is all these years, and I know you say he’s a designer, not a technician, and he doesn’t get near anything that might be dangerous, but you know he used to, back at Oak Ridge. Don’t you think… well, of course, I’m just being a foolish old woman, and I don’t want you to get upset. You know much more about it than I do, and I’m sure your doctor was right. He should know…”

Margaret made a face over the excellent coffee, and caught herself refolding the paper to the medical news.

Stop it, Maggie, stop it! The radiologist said that Hank’s job couldn’t have exposed him. And the bombed area we drove past… No, no. Stop it, now! Read the social notes or the recipes, Maggie girl.

A well-known geneticist, in the medical news, said that it was possible to tell with absolute certainty, at five months, whether the child would be normal, or at least whether the mutation was likely to produce anything freakish. The worst cases, at any rate, could be prevented. Minor mutations, of course, displacements in facial features, or changes in brain structure could not be detected. And there had been some cases recently, of normal embryos with atrophied limbs that did not develop beyond the seven or eight month. But, the doctor concluded cheerfully, the worst cases could be predicted and prevented.

“Predicted and prevented.” We predicted it, didn’t we? Hank and the others, they predicted it. But we didn’t prevent it. We could have stopped it in ’46 and ’47. Now…

Margaret decided against the breakfast. Coffee had been enough for her in the morning for ten years; it would have to do for today. She buttoned herself into the interminable folds of material that, the salesgirl had assured her, was the only comfortable thing to wear during the last few months. With a surge of pure pleasure, the letter and newspaper forgotten, she realized that she was on the next to last button. It wouldn’t be long now.

The city in the early morning had always been a special kind of excitement for her. Last night it had rained, and the sidewalks were still damp-gray instead of dusty. The air smelled fresher, to a city-bred woman, for the occasional pungency of acrid factory smoke. She walked the six blocks to work, watching the lights go out in the all-night hamburger joints, where the plate-glass walls were already catching the sun, and the lights go on in the dim interiors of cigar stores and dry-cleaning establishments.

The office was in a new Government building. In the rolovator, on the way up, she felt, as always, like a frankfurter roll in the ascending half of an old-style rotary toasting machine. She abandoned the air-foam cushioning gratefully at the fourteenth floor, and settled down behind her desk, at the rear of a long row of identical desks.

Each morning the pile of papers that greeted her was a little higher. These were, as everyone knew, the decisive months. The war might be won or lost on these calculations as well as any others. The manpower office had switched her here when her old expediter’s job got to be too strenuous. The computer was easy to operate, and the work was absorbing, if not as exciting as the old job. But you didn’t just stop working these days. Everyone who could do anything at all was needed.

And – she remembered the interview with the psychologist – I’m probably the unstable type. Wonder what sort of neurosis I’d get sitting home reading that sensational paper…

She plunged into work without pursuing the thought.

February 18

Just a note – from the hospital, no less. I had a dizzy spell at work, and the doctor took it to heart. Blessed if I know what I’ll do with myself lying in bed for weeks, just waiting – but Dr. Boyer seems to think it may not be so long.

There are too many newspapers around here. More infanticides all the time, and they can’t seem to get a jury to convict any of them. It’s the fathers who do it. Lucky think you’re not around, in case –

Oh darling, that wasn’t a very funny joke, was it? Write as often as you can, will you? I have too much time to think. But there really isn’t anything wrong, and nothing to worry about.

Write often, and remember I love you.

SPECIAL SERVICE TELEGRAM

FEBRUARY 21, 1953

FROM: TECH. LIEUT. H. MARVELL.

TO: MRS. H. MARVELL

HAD DOCTOR’S GRAM STOP WILL ARRIVE FOUR OH TEN STOP SHORT LEAVE STOP YOU DID IT MAGGIE STOP LOVE HANK

February 25

So you didn’t see the baby either? You’d think a place this size would at least have visiplates on the incubators, so the fathers could get a look, even if the poor benighted mommas can’t. They tell me I won’t see her for another week, or maybe more – but of course, mother always warned me that if I didn’t slow my pace, I’d probably even have my babies too fast. Why must she always be right?

Did you meet that battle-ax of a nurse they put on here? I imagine they save her for people who’ve already had theirs, and don’t let her get too near the prospectives – but a woman like that simply shouldn’t be allowed in a maternity ward. She’s obsessed with mutations, can’t seem to talk about anything else. Oh, well, ours is all right, even if it was in an unholy hurry.

I’m tired. They warned me not to sit up so soon, but I had to write you. All my love, darling,

February 29

I finally got to see her! It’s all true, what they say about new babies and the face that only a mother could love – but it’s all there, darling, eyes, ears, and noses – no, only one! – all in the right places. We’re so lucky, Hank.

I’m afraid I’ve been a rambunctious patient. I kept telling that hatchet-faced female with the mutation mania that I wanted to see the baby. Finally the doctor came in to “explain” everything to me, and talked a lot of nonsense, most of which I’m sure no one could have understood, any more than I did. The only thing I got out of it was that she didn’t actually have to stay in the incubator; they just thought it was “wiser”.

I think I got a little hysterical at that point. Guess I was more worried than I was willing to admit, but I threw a small fit about it. The whole business wound up with one of those hushed medical conferences outside the door, and finally the Woman in White said: “Well, we might as well. Maybe it’ll work out better that way.”

I’d heard about the way doctors and nurses in these places develop a God complex, and believe me it is as true figuratively as it is literally that a mother hasn’t got a leg to stand on around here.

I am awfully weak, still. I’ll write again soon. Love,

March 8

Well, the nurse was wrong if she told you that. She’s an idiot anyhow. It’s a girl. It’s easier to tell with babies than with cats, and I know. How about Henrietta?

I’m home again, and busier than a betatron. They got everything mixed up at the hospital, and I had to teach myself how to bathe her and do just about everything else. She’s getting prettier, too. When can you get a leave, a real leave?

May 26

You should see her now – and you shall. I’m sending you along a reel of color movie. My mother sent her those nighties with drawstrings all over. I put one on, and right now she looks like a snow-white potato sack with that beautiful, beautiful flower-face blooming on top. Is that me talking? Am I a doting mother? But wait till you see her!

July 10

… Believe it or not, as you like, but your daughter can talk, and I don’t mean baby talk. Alice discovered it – she’s a dental assistant in the WACs, you know – and when she heard the baby giving out what I thought was a string of gibberish, she said the kid knew words and sentences, but couldn’t say them clearly because she has no teeth yet. I’m taking her to a speech specialist.

September 13

… We have a prodigy for real! Now that all her front teeth are in, her speech is perfectly clear and – a new talent now – she can sing! I mean really carry a tune! At seven months! Darling my world would be perfect if you could only get home.

November 19

… at last. The little goon was so busy being clever, it took her all this time to learn to crawl. The doctor says development in these cases is always erratic…

SPECIAL SERVICE TELEGRAM

DECEMBER 1, 1953

FROM: TECH. LIEUT. H. MARVELL

TO: MRS. H. MARVELL

WEEK’S LEAVE STARTS TOMORROW STOP WILL ARRIVE AIRPORT TEN OH FIVE STOP DON’T MEET ME STOP LOVE LOVE LOVE HANK

Margaret let the water run out of the bathinette until only a few inches were left, and then loosed her hold on the wriggling baby.

“I think it was better when you were retarded, young woman,” she informed her daughter happily. “You can’t crawl in a bathinette, you know.”

“Then why can’t I go in the bathtub?” Margaret was used to her child’s volubility by now, but every now and then it caught her unawares. She swooped the resistant mass of pink flesh into a towel, and began to rub.

“Because you’re too little, and your head is very soft, and bathtubs are very hard.”

“Oh. Then when can I go in the bathtub?”

“When the outside of your head is as hard as the inside, brainchild.” She reached toward a pile of fresh clothing. “I cannot understand,” she added, pinning a square of cloth through the nightgown, “why a child of your intelligence can’t learn to keep a diaper on the way other babies do. They’ve been used for centuries, you know, with perfectly satisfactory results.”

The child disdained to reply; she heard it too often. She waited patiently until she had been tucked, clean and sweet-smelling, into a white-painted crib. Then she favored her mother with a smile that inevitably made Margaret think of the first golden edge of the sun bursting into a rosy predawn. She remembered Hank’s reaction to the color pictures of his beautiful daughter, and with the thought, realized how late it was.

“Go to sleep, puss. When you wake up, you know, your daddy will be here.”

“Why?” asked the four-year-old mind, waging a losing battle to keep the ten-month-old body awake.

Margaret went into the kitchenette and set the timer for the roast. She examined the table, and got her clothes from the closet, new dress, new shoes, new slip, new everything, bought weeks before and saved for the day Hank’s telegram came. She stopped to pull a paper from the facsimile, and, with clothes and news, went into the bathroom, and lowered herself gingerly into the steaming luxury of a scented tub.

She glanced through the paper with indifferent interest. Today at least there was no need to read the national news. There was an article by a geneticist. The same geneticist. Mutations, he said, were increasing disproportionately. It was too soon for recessives; even the first mutants, born near Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1946 and 1947 were not old enough yet to breed. But my baby’s all right. Apparently, there was some degree of free radiation from atomic explosions causing the trouble. My baby’s fine. Precocious, but normal. If more attention had been paid to the first Japanese mutations, he said…

There was that little notice in the paper in the spring of ’47. That was when Hank quit at Oak Ridge. “Only 2 or 3 percent of those guilty of infanticide are being caught and punished in Japan today…” But MY BABY’S all right.

She was dressed, combed, and ready to the last light brush-on of lip paste, when the door chime sounded. She dashed off for the door, and heard for the first time in eighteen months the almost-forgotten sound of a key turning in the lock before the chime had quite died away.

And then there was nothing to say. So many days, so many months, of small news piling up, so many things to tell him, and now she just stood there, staring at a khaki uniform and a stranger’s pale face. She traced the features with the finger of memory. The same high-bridged nose, wide-set eyes, fine feathery brows; the same long jaw, the hair a little farther back now on the high forehead, the same tilted curve to his mouth. Pale… Of course he’d been underground all this time. And strange, stranger because of lost familiarity than any newcomer’s face could be.

She had time to think all that before his hand reached out to touch her, and spanned the gap of eighteen months. Now, again, there was nothing to say, because there was no need. They were together, and for the moment that was enough.

“Where’s the baby?”

“Sleeping. She’ll be up any minute.”

No urgency. Their voices were as casual as though it were a daily exchange, as though war and separation did not exist. Margaret picked up the coat he’d thrown down on the chair near the door, and hung it carefully in the hall closet. She went to check the roast, leaving him to wander through the rooms himself, remembering and coming back. She found him, finally, standing over the baby’s crib.

She couldn’t see his face, but she had no need to.

“I think we can wake her just this once.” Margaret pulled the covers down and lifted the white bundle from the bed. Sleepy lids pulled back heavily from smoky brown eyes.

“Hello.” Hank’s voice was tentative.

“Hello.” The baby’s assurance was more pronounced.

He had heard about it, of course, but that wasn’t the same as hearing it. He turned eagerly to Margaret. “She really can-?”

“Of course she can, darling. But what’s more important, she can even do nice normal things like other babies do, even stupid ones. Watch her crawl!” Margaret set the baby on the big bed.

For a moment young Henrietta lay and eyed her parents dubiously.

“Crawl?” she asked.

“That’s the idea. Your daddy is new around here, you know. He wants to see you show off.”

“Then put me on my tummy.”

“Oh, of course.” Margaret obligingly rolled the baby over.

“What’s the matter?” Hank’s voice was still casual, but an undercurrent in it began to charge the air of the room. “I thought they turned over first.”

“This baby” – Margaret would not notice the tension – “This baby does things when she wants to.”

The baby’s father watched with softening eyes while the head advanced and the body hunched up propelling itself across the bed.

“Why, the little rascal.” He burst into relieved laughter. “She looks like one of those potato-sack racers they used to have on picnics. Got her arms pulled out of the sleeves already.” He reached over and grabbed the knot at the bottom of the long nightie.

“I’ll do it, darling.” Margaret tried to get there first.

“Don’t be silly, Maggie. This may be your first baby, but I had five kid brothers.” He laughed her away, and reached with his other hand for the string that closed one sleeve. He opened the sleeve bow, and groped for an arm.

“The way you wriggle,” he addressed his child sternly, as his hand touched a moving knob of flesh at the shoulder, “anyone might think you are a worm, using your tummy to crawl on, instead of your hands and feet.”

Margaret stood and watched, smiling. “Wait till you hear her sing, darling – “

His right hand traveled down from shoulder the shoulder to where he thought an arm would be, traveled down, and straight down, over firm small muscles that writhed in an attempt to move against the pressure of his hand. He let his fingers drift up again to the shoulder. With infinite care he opened the knot at the bottom of the nightgown. His wife was standing by the bed, saying, “She can do ‘Jingle Bells,’ and – “

His left hand felt along the soft knitted fabric of the gown, up toward the diaper that folded, flat and smooth, across the bottom end of his child. No wrinkles. No kicking. No…

“Maggie.” He tried to pull his hands from the neat fold in the diaper, from the wriggling body.

“Maggie.” His throat was dry; words came hard, low, and grating. He spoke very slowly, thinking the sound of each word to make himself say it. His head was spinning, but he had to know before he let it go.

“Maggie, why… didn’t you… tell me?”

“Tell you what, darling?” Margaret’s poise was the immemorial patience of a woman confronted with the man’s childish impetuosity. Her sudden laugh sounded fantastically easy and natural in that room; it was all clear to her now. “Is she wet? I didn’t know.”

She didn’t know. His hands, beyond control, ran up and down the soft-skinned baby body, the sinuous, limbless body. Oh God, dear God – his head shook and his muscles contracted in a bitter spasm of hysteria. His fingers tightened on his child – Oh God, she didn’t know…

That Only a Mother

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Real Rating: 3.5* of five

A very ableist take on the burdens of parenthood. Wouldn’t do so well in today’s climate. A Cold-War atomic nightmare writ domestic, though very very disturbingly real. The Cold War’s end and the lack of an atomic war being actually fought after 1945 rendered it sort of, well, moot in a curious way. I think the Zeitgeist preferred this, a woman’s story about the beguiling monomania of motherhood, to a polyphonic tale about a husband without a lot of affect, a child wi Real Rating: 3.5* of five

A choking and terrifying short scifi horror story. I can understand why this is a classic. Even when the plot twist is revealed to not be in today’s age original, it was still impactful.

The saddest thing is that i could not find a copy of this story in any short story collection here in Europe. Only in US and too expensive for my taste (i will not pay 15€ just for one short story that i may not like). The only free version that i could fine was a audio book stream from seudopod.org
Link: http:/ A choking and terrifying short scifi horror story. I can understand why this is a classic. Even when the plot twist is revealed to not be in today’s age original, it was still impactful.

The saddest thing is that i could not find a copy of this story in any short story collection here in Europe. Only in US and too expensive for my taste (i will not pay 15€ just for one short story that i may not like). The only free version that i could fine was a audio book stream from seudopod.org
Link: http://pseudopod.org/2017/05/15/pseud.
. more

-Read in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One-

Definitely a product of the cold war and fears of nuclear war and radioactive fallout. A story about the ‘power’ of a mother’s love.

Set in 1953 but written in 1948 (well before the invention of the ICBM), this story captures all the Atomic era fears of ordinary Americans about the effects of radiation on human reproduction and has added piquancy because it is written by a woman.

This is quite skilled piece, building up our expectation of the ‘punch line’ by allowing the mother to offer hints of what is to come (which she simply refuses to acknowledge herself) through her reports of interactions with other people.

However, clos
Set in 1953 but written in 1948 (well before the invention of the ICBM), this story captures all the Atomic era fears of ordinary Americans about the effects of radiation on human reproduction and has added piquancy because it is written by a woman.

This is quite skilled piece, building up our expectation of the ‘punch line’ by allowing the mother to offer hints of what is to come (which she simply refuses to acknowledge herself) through her reports of interactions with other people.

However, closer scrutiny suggests that the father’s surprise should be no surprise given earlier communications with a maternity nurse but the story requires its punch line so that’s that. Interesting though because it articulates what must have been a private fear for many parents.

Thats my mother

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C. Silva

“Picking five favorite books is like picking the five body parts you’d most like not to lose.”

“That only a Mother”

“That Only a Mother,” -by Judith Merril

“That Only a Mother” is a short story written by J. Merril. It’s about a woman, and a man begetting a child that was defected by radioactivity that results to mutation. The setting was in a war where nuclear bombing has been quite notorious and often occurring.

I was fascinated by the title of the story. I originally think that this story would be quite warm and loving. Which is not a bad guess at all. The story was eloquently written so i hadn’t experience some bemused feeling like the other sci-fi short stories we had read these past few weeks. It’s not like dropping you like a bomb out of nowhere not knowing anything about your surroundings. In this story you can easily adapt to the settings and wouldn’t be confused.

Comparing it to Misha Nogha’s, “Chippoke Na Gomi,” Ursula LeGuin’s, “Nine Lives,” and Philip Dick’s, “We can Remember it for you wholesale,” J.M.’s, “That Only a Mother” is quite straightforward. The setting is not from the unknown world with clones, it’s not about weird dust stuffs, it’s not about confusing dreams about Mars and especially, it doesn’t have invented sci-fi terms that is pretty mind-boggling at times. The story contains simple things we can relate to. Like War, Bombs and a mother.

The story begun portraying Maggie with indications of pregnancy. Her husband, Hank, is a technical lieutenant in the force, who was sent in an assignment.

Having a baby in that century was never a good thing. The reason is because of radioactivity. Nuclear bombing has been happening around them, especially the men who are sent by the forces. They had been exposed to radiation that will cause them to be affected by it. Procreating a child with a parent exposed to radioactivity can cause mutation.

Mutation is a change in the DNA sequence that makes up a gene. So if you had been exposed to a high-level radioactivity such as the nuclear bomb it can cause your off-spring a bad genetic variation. That’s the reason why Margaret was bothered, considering she might gave birth to a mutant.

Furthermore, the story also revolves around the letter exchanges between Margaret and her husband, Hank. After Margaret gave birth to Henrietta, she was enraptured and captivated by the wonders of childbirth. Delighted by the wonderful news, she immediately sent a letter to her husband stating that their child is normal and healthy. I also took note of Margaret ranting about the nurse who has been described as a “hatchet-face female with mutation mania” in the story. She tremendously loathed the doctors and nurses because according to her they developed a God complex. Which perplexed me. Why was she hating on the doctors and nurses? I learned the answer as i go through the story.

As they go on their messages to each other. Margaret indicated that Henrietta is a prodigy because she can already speak at the age of seven months old. Margaret was ecstatic and extremely proud of her daughter’s rapid improvement. The letter exchanging continues, until the day that Hank sent a telegram to Maggie informing her of his one week leave to work.

Hanks returned home and was warmly welcomed by his wife that he hadn’t seen for eighteen months. After greeting his wife, he then heads to her daughter. Henrietta lay asleep in her crib wrapped in a bundle of clothes. Margaret woke Henrietta up and let her husband greet their baby a “hello.” Hank was surprised of Henrietta’s response despite of knowing she can actually speak. Margaret then boasted Henrietta’s talents to her husband.

This is where the first clear hint behind Henrietta’s true physique.

“What’s the matter?” Hank’s voice was still casual, but an undercurrent in it began to charge in the air of the room. “I thought they turned over first.”
“This baby”—Margaret would not notice the tension—”This baby does things when she wants to.”

(Of course, i didn’t notice that this was a hint until i finished the story. I was tricked by the author and as a reader i am meant to be one.)

As the story continues, the mystery slowly unfolds. Is Henrietta a normal baby or not? It was explained that she was way above in intellectual aspects compared to other normal children of her age. Margaret only stated positive things about Henrietta that led us, the readers, to an unknown confusion. We brushed off Margaret’s mother, the geneticist, the radiologist,the doctors,and the nurse’s remarks about mutation, as Margaret ignored them too. If we analyze it, we only see things in Margaret’s point of view. As i learned in our class about scrutinizing details, we see things via the camera man who was holding the camera depending on whose point of view the director of the film, or in this case, the author of the book wants us, the readers, to sympathize with. But at the time the camera man sat beside the husband, we suddenly see things in a different way and now, we think differently too. We started to doubt and slowly grasp that there’s something enigmatic about Henrietta. She’s not normal.

This is the second clear hint about Henrietta’s true physique. (The part where Hanks decided to fix Henrietta’s sleeves)

“I’ll do it, darling.” Margaret tried to get there first.
“Don’t be silly, Maggie, This may be your first baby, but i had five kid brothers.” he laughed her away, and reached with his other hand for the string that closed one sleeve. He opened the sleeve bow and groped for an arm.

I emphasized the scene where Margaret acted suspiciously. From the sentence, “Margaret tried to get there first.” It means that she was trying to hide something and she doesn’t want her husband to know about it. Unfortunately, she failed hiding the secret.

This is the third and last part where the truth would be revealed.

“Is she wet? I didn’t know.”
She didn’t know. His hands, beyond control, ran up and down the soft-skinned baby body, the sinuous, limbless body. Oh God, dear God—his head shook and his muscles contracted in a bitter spasm of hysteria. His fingers tightened on his child— Oh God, she didn’t know…

The mystery was Henrietta is a mutant after all. She doesn’t have arms and legs. Moreover, the fact that Margaret was delusional and mentally unstable. Why? Because she kept telling other people that Henrietta was stable and normal, in a way it becomes a delusion of making things seem okay convincing herself that “her baby” was in fact a normal child, even though she really isn’t. Maybe all the anxiousness and fear goes straight to her head making her loaded and a little crazy.

Also, what bothers me is how Merril portray a disabled child. Can’t they accept a child having no arms and legs? Sure it’s hard, therefore that doesn’t mean that she can’t be intellectually normal. She won’t be physically stable, ever. However, she can still live her life. And so i realized that, she may have written Henrietta as a limbless child but still, she was described as a prodigy. Meaning that, humans all have their own faults but there’s always one thing that can make up for the loss.

In addition to that, i was a little confused by the last act at the end. Was he trying to kill the baby? Maybe he is. Did Hank killed Henrietta? Wikipedia said he did murder her child. If so, for me, that would be a really cruel ending. Why exactly did he do that? Maybe the war made him do that. Maybe the things happening around the world make a normal people do psychotic stuffs. The only thing i know for sure is that having a child like Henrietta would be a difficult challenge and struggle as a parent. Therefore, killing your child wouldn’t be a normal response to do so.

To sum up the story, what Merril wants us to realize reading T.O.A.M. What she wants to expressed writing this story is to relay how far and in to what extent a mother’s love can stretch. Margaret’s fear of having a mutant child and it happening actually made her blind. Her love and desires made her blind. Love can make you blind.It was tragic yet a fulfilling and inspiring story.

“That only a Mother,” was a good read for me. The story made me think and write about a lot of things. It was brilliantly written and i loved it. No matter how tragic the ending is, the most important thing is that the author created this for us, to know that we can accept everything if we only let our hearts and minds embraced the truth and learn to “love” the “hate.”