Letter to Mercedes

by Eugene Wynyard

Honorable Mention, Prose, Create | Encounter 2025

Hello Mercedes,

My name is Eugene. I am your biological father.

You were never born, and I never held you—but I carry you now, in a way I didn’t understand back then. I don’t know if you knew I existed. I don’t know if you searched for me. But I know this: you were real. You mattered. And you still do.

I was born in Rotorua, New Zealand, and grew up in the Bay Of Plenty—places where the waves rolled in like time, where we chased adventure and thought it would never end. At 22, I worked in a music store by day, DJ’d nightclubs by weekend, and lived like tomorrow didn’t matter.

That’s when I met your mother. She and a friend would stop by the shop most Fridays, flicking through CDs, laughing at our bad jokes, dancing later to the music I spun behind the decks. It was playful, innocent, effortless. The beginning of something I never imagined would lead to you.

In 1995, we were living together when you were conceived. You weren’t planned. We were caught off guard—young, unsure, afraid. The world told us we could “try again later,” that this wasn’t the right time. So we listened to fear instead of love.

By the time we made the decision, you were already into your second trimester. We drove to Auckland, two-and-a-half hours in silence. I sat in the waiting room. They wheeled your mother out after the procedure. She was dazed. I was numb. We drove home without a word, as if silence could erase what we’d done.

But it didn’t. Not then. Not ever.

We believed abortion was the end of a problem.We learned it was the beginning of a fracture.It didn’t solve—it split.It split us apart as a couple, and it tore something deep in me I couldn’t name.

A few months later, we ended. And that chapter closed like a door slammed in the dark.

Two decades passed. I buried it. Pretended it didn’t shape me. Until one day, someone asked:“Have you ever been involved in an abortion?”It was a bomb—detonating twenty years of denial.And in the blast, I heard something I can never un-hear.Your cry.

That was the moment I met my Abortion Kryptonite—the soundless scream that broke through the silence, cracked the concrete of my heart, and forced me to remember.Not the procedure.Not the pain.You.

From that cry, a journey began. I followed the fragments. I picked them up, one by one. And it led me here—to the Four Healing Paths of the Unborn Father. Through those steps, I began to understand what I couldn’t admit back then:

You were never a "choice."You were a child.My daughter.

Mercedes, I thought we could have you later.But later never came.Because there is only one you.And I let you go.

I’m sorry.I’m sorry we didn’t let you breathe air, taste summer, sing your favourite song, or chase your dreams across this strange and beautiful earth.I’m sorry we listened to the world and not the whisper inside.I’m sorry we thought you were a problem to be fixed, not a person to be cherished.I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.

I hope I know where you are now—as your spark didn’t die—it simply changed form. That’s how energy works. And you, Mercedes, were never empty.

Through my journey, I built this space—Your Great Unborn Wall.It’s your place. Your name. Your legacy.It’s not made of bricks or marble, but of truth, healing, and honour.This is where you are remembered.This is where I stand.

And this… is my promise to you:

I will not hide from what happened.I will not forget who you were.And I will not let silence have the last word.

This is your memorial, Mercedes.May it light the dark for others, the way your cry lit the way for me.

With all my love,Dad xxx