Either way, I wouldn't care.
There were hundreds of thousands of eggs inside my mother
There were millions of sperm inside my father
The chances of them meeting and having sex were already miniscule
Most of the fertilized eggs that they produced never attached to the uterine wall
There was a 1/3 chance that once a fertilized egg attached, it would detach later, causing a miscarriage
Even after all of that, there was still a chance that I'd be stillborn.
And within 100 years of my death, it is a guarantee that everybody who ever knew me will have also passed on, which means that for all intents and purposes, there will be nobody who'll have any sentimental or emotional attachment to me. My life will be nothing more than the data points for statistical analysis of population dynamics.
The point is that the chances against me being here are so astronomical, that I don't really regard it as being that special, since we all beat those same astronomical odds. One of the sperm cells that I beat out could have been the cell that would have figured out a way to treat a variety of cancers (it's unlikely, but possible), or it could have been the cell that had a tendency for drug abuse and child grooming. Potato, potahto. But once you start trying to throw emotion and personal feelings into the mix, objectivity, by definition, is out the window. Had my mother aborted me, I wouldn't have cared and society, the world, and the universe would have taken no notice. Some jackwad would have written some meme poem for morons to share on Facebook and some church would have their annual "Cemetery for the Defenseless!" mass of crossed gravemarkers put up, claiming to speak on my behalf (but if I was born, they'd stop caring, until I started to devote my time and money to them).
So at the end of the day, I don't care. Life's a set of chemical reactions that got out of hand and we've turned it into a farce.