It had not been long since the young man had ascended the throne he inherited from his father. When consulted by the Creator, his desire was but one: understanding to govern and serve the people by discerning between good and evil. However, he would soon face his first test.
Two prostitutes, who lived together, burst into the royal hall, prostrating themselves before the king.
— I gave birth to a son, and three days later, this other woman also had hers. While she slept, she laid upon him, and he died — the first woman said, concluding: Then she swapped the children while I slept, but I realized it in the morning.
The other retorted, claiming that the living child was hers and the dead one belonged to her accuser.
The young king meditated patiently while listening to the exchange of accusations until he proposed a solution:
— Bring me a sword! Divide the living boy in two, and give one half to one and the other half to the other!
Likely, you reading this story remembered a similar one: the biblical tale that tells how the young King Solomon became famous for his wisdom and admired by all.
In this tale, as in superhero stories, we find a moment in time where a different choice creates a universe completely divergent from the original—a new timeline where all possibilities form the multiverse.
In our story, one of the prostitutes stood stunned; she said nothing while she contemplated her right to the child.
— He shall be neither mine nor yours; divide him!
The second woman insisted, perhaps driven by the grief of having lost her own son, or perhaps because she believed she deserved the joy of holding this one.
The young king delayed his raised hand, a signal, while he looked at the first woman, who remained silent.
— What do you desire? — the king asked, anguished by the gravity of the moment.
The time the king waited for the answer dilated to the limit of the tolerable, to which she replied:
— All I want is for justice to be done.
We cannot say whether it was the weight of the responsibility to keep his word or the shock caused by the woman’s response; the fact is that the king let his arm drop as if he had lost control of the limb. The soldier, still armed with the sword, followed suit over the child, closing his eyes and delivering the fatal blow.
The two women, witnessing that terrible spectacle, collapsed to the floor on their knees: the first in tears; and the other, dazed, repeating that this was not what she wanted.
The young king, resigned, rested his head in his hands, hiding his face so as not to see the disbelief installed in the eyes of his subjects, perhaps foreshadowing the end of his reign.
The two stories, this one and the biblical one, share some similarities: a young king, newly crowned, seeking truth and yearning to practice justice for his subjects, made a risky bet on the common sense of a true mother; and two suffering women, despised because of their profession, placing in the child a hope for a better future, defended what they believed was just for themselves.
However, here we have a terrible end: the mother, certain of her right, preferred to go to the ultimate consequences in the reckless defense of her beliefs and values—of that which is “right and just”—without realizing that she had failed to protect what was most valuable to her.
Just as in this story, we see our society divided into extreme positions: each side seeking only justice according to what it believes to be correct, delegitimizing diverse thought. And of course, we must fight for what we believe in, but what is the limit? How far is it worth defending our interests, needs, or beliefs?
In the biblical story, King Solomon trusted that the true mother would place the greater good above her own will. He knew that a true mother, regardless of whether she gave birth to the child or not, would never go to the ultimate consequences to defend her right, for she knows what is most important. A mother knows that before seeking truth, before doing what is right, before claiming what is just—before everything—it is necessary that the child lives.