The Algorithm of Spring

74

Maya's device wouldn't stop buzzing. Every buzz made the room feel a degree off-level. Jun-ho moved around his apartment keeping a protective silence.

"My mother keeps calling," Maya said, staring at the screen as it lit up for the twelfth time. "I don't know what to say to her."

Jun-ho paused. "You don't have to talk to anyone right now."

"Don't I?" Maya's voice cracked. "They've dragged my private medical history into public view. Everyone I know is asking questions I never wanted to answer."

She scrolled through the messages, each one a fresh intrusion. Her gallery director's guarded concern about "reputation management." Former classmates expressing shocked support. And worse—strangers who'd somehow found her contact information, sending judgement wrapped in faux concern.

The device buzzed relentlessly. Her mother.

"I have to answer eventually," Maya said, thumb hovering over the accept button. "She deserves that much."

Jun-ho nodded, giving her space. He retreated to the kitchen, the sound of running water providing a small barrier of privacy.

Maya took a deep breath and answered. "Umma."

"Maya." Her mother's voice was tight, controlled. "I've been calling."

"I know. I'm sorry."

A lengthy silence. Maya could picture her mother's face—the careful composition, the effort it took to maintain dignity when discussing difficult matters.

"So it's public now," her mother finally said. "Everything you tried to keep private."

Maya closed her eyes. "Yes."

She heard her mother exhale sharply. "You went to Beijing alone. We never discussed the details, but I knew. I always knew. Mothers know these things," she added, quiet but unyielding. 

"I didn't want to involve you in the details," Maya said. "I thought it was better that way."

"Better for whom?" The hurt in her mother's voice cut deeper than anger would have. "Did you think partial truths would protect me? That I couldn't handle the reality of what you were going through?"

"Would you have wanted all the details?" Maya asked softly.

Another silence, heavier than the first.

"Perhaps not," her mother admitted. "But I deserved more than whispered half-conversations. I've been left to piece together what happened from strangers. From an app notification, Maya. Do you know how that feels?"

"I'm sorry." The words withered under her mother's silence.

"You're my daughter. Whatever choice you made, I would have stood by you." Her voice wavered for the first time. "But you kept me at arm's length."

Maya felt tears burning behind her eyes. "I wanted to protect you."

"Protect me?" Her mother sounded genuinely confused. "From what?"

"From having to lie for me. From the questions from family. From knowing the full weight of what happened."

"That wasn't your decision to make," her mother said quietly, "even if you thought you were sparing me. I'm stronger than you think."

"I know," Maya said, swallowing hard. "I think I was protecting myself too. From seeing disappointment in your eyes."

"A child is not a prize, Maya," her mother said quietly. "And no system gets to tell you otherwise."

"Who made you feel that way?" her mother asked softly.

The question hung in the air.

Who indeed.

The same society that tracked women's fertility and monitored their reproductive choices. The same system that had exposed her most private decision as if it were public property.

"I don't know," Maya said truthfully. "I thought it was what everyone expected."

Her mother sighed. "Not everyone. Not me." There was rustling on the line, like she was moving to another room. "People are calling me, asking questions. Old friends. Your aunt. What do you want me to tell them?"

The question caught Maya off guard. Her mother wasn't demanding further explanation or imposing her own narrative. She was asking Maya what she wanted.

"I don't know," Maya said again, feeling adrift. "What would you tell them?"

"That it's none of their business," her mother said firmly. "That my daughter's medical history is her own. That gossip is beneath them." The steadiness in her mother's voice felt like a hand on her back.

Something loosened in Maya—a knot she hadn't realised was there. "Thank you."

"But Maya," her mother continued, "you need to tell me what's happening. Not just this. Everything. These strange messages, these allegations. Something is wrong, and you're in the middle of it."

Maya glanced toward Jun-ho, who was deliberately busying himself making more coffee. How much could she safely tell her mother? How much should she keep hidden?

She traced a crack in Jun-ho's table. "It's complicated."

"Life is complicated," her mother replied. "Try anyway."

Before Maya could respond, her device chimed with another notification. A fresh message from her gallery director:

"Maya, in light of recent developments, our board feels it's best to postpone your upcoming exhibition. We'll be in touch when things settle down."

She felt a flash of heat rise to her face. They were dropping her. Not even bothering with a personal call. Humiliation wasn't loud — it arrived like a temperature drop.

"Maya?" her mother asked. "Are you still there?"

"I have to go," Maya said, her voice strange to her own ears. "I'll call you later. I promise."

She ended the call and set the device carefully on Jun-ho's table. The screen lit up again—she turned it face down — the only boundary she had left to draw.