Where does our story begin?
Most would say it began on a sweltering summer morning, with record-breaking heat. The night before, I slept restlessly, my stomach aching. I blamed it on the Fourth of July, cursing the hamburger and Screwdriver I consumed. Sitting on the side of the tub, I groan.
Your father walks in, looking at me with tired eyes. Strands of black hair stand at attention across his scalp, defying gravity. He jokes that I should take a test. I balk, playfully rolling my eyes. I already know what it will say. But I do it anyway. I hold the strip in the tiny cup and count to ten.
I set the thin paper on the counter, glancing into the mirror. A curly ball of hair sits haphazardly on my head, drooping to one side. My eyes are wilted, their sleepiness deepened by cheeks flushed from the heat. Sighing, I look down.
At first, I see nothing. But then… Is that something? I’ve never seen something before. Eyes wide, I rush to the light, holding the tiny paper close to my face. My vision doubles. So do the lines. I breathe in, deep.
An odd feeling unfurls in my stomach, expanding until it lodges in my throat. It spreads to my skull, filling every corner with pressure. It suffocates me. I gasp for air and begin to sweat. Every possible future unfolds. Some lead to you. Others don’t. One in five. One in five doesn’t make it.
Your father walks in and hugs me. I can breathe again. As I exhale, my restraint dissolves. I picture the future I want — the one I secretly believed I’d never have.
I see you. You are entirely your own, and I am in awe of you. My finger becomes your lifeline as you hold on tight. I silently vow that my wounds won’t become your wounds, that you won’t inherit my pain.
As I stroke your head, you see the world for the first time. It is hazy and bright beneath the hospital lights. As you age, it will come into focus. The world will often be dark. But people — they can be light. I hope you will be light.
I tell you I love you. I’ve loved you since I saw two lines in the sweltering July heat. I loved you before you were certain. I loved you when I was afraid.
I am brought back to the bathroom by your father’s voice. I smile, knowing that if you do come true, we will be ready.
And one day, if I’m lucky, I’ll let you know: This was the beginning of us.
Author’s Note: I wrote this before my daughter was born. She’s six months old now, and somehow even more amazing than I imagined.
A version of this piece was originally published in Alethiology.
My boys are 11 and 8, and that feeling keeps growing. This was beautiful, thank you for sharing.