Lifeboat ethics apply.
I spend most of my life making a beautiful, graceful lifeboat that is just right for me, with elegant hooks on which to hang tiny water stills and grain buoys, fill the buoys and stock it with a watertight first-aid kit and a few basic tools, strap waist packs to myself filled with all my jewelry and money in the world, family photos and other things I wouldnāt want to lose, and go on a cruise.
The ship sinks. Rather than use one of their boats, I use my beautiful lifeboat, of course.
A newborn infant somehow winds up on my boat, weighing it down, needing my food and water, taking up space I canāt easily spare. The boat is mine, part of who I am. The child is damaging it.
The child has nowhere else to go. I cannot tell this child not to get on my boat. I didnāt pay attention and now she is there and we are at sea alone. I have no means of signaling for help and wonāt for seven months at least.
The only way to regain my lifeboat and get the baby off it is to kill the baby. I can throw the baby overboard, drowning her in salt water, which will burn and suffocate her. I can kill her in another way first and then get rid of the body. But if she goes she dies and if she stays I give something up.
I maintain that there is no circumstance in which I have the right to throw the baby overboard. None at all.
Even if she arrived as a result of a crime in which I was the victim, I would have no business killing her. If pirates surrounded my boat, beat me, took my packs of jewelry and other precious things, stole most of the food and water and accidentally left a kidnapped infant on the boat as they sped off, I would have no right to drown her. She didnāt do anything.
Even if I had very little to eat, I would have no right to starve her. She would need me and I would be her only hope, and it would not be her fault she was there.