Letters to my Daughter: May 2, 2017

I'm sat cross-legged next to you and you're swimming. Small creases encircle your wrists and ankles and I'm mesmerized by them. You hold them in the air and groan, body tense with your head above the quilt I placed on the floor for us. I want to remember you like this always. A little person struggling to make headway across a seemingly insurmountable square of fabric. Your gusto. The way you rest by clutching Bunny under your chin and nibble on his ear.

Pregnancy was lonely, but my postpartum recovery has intensified the reality of my situation. The way people flinch after I tell them I'm not married hasn't gotten easier. Hate the sin, love the sinner, a cloyingly sinister mantra I've been subjected to throughout my pregnancy from the people who claimed to care about us. We occupy a small space meted out by your father in his apartment and I pass time picking over college and university brochures. I watch you grow and the seasons change around us.

So much of who I used to be has been stripped away. I’m scrambling to remember who I used to be and if I even what to be that version of myself anymore. I don't have a support group of women with children, or even immediate family. I have you, a small spare room with a mattress on the floor and your father is withdrawn. I bought you a crib, but we sleep together. Your small fist curls under my pillow as you huddle closer to me in your sleep. It means everything to me in a life that's tenuous at best. I read Neil Gaiman books to you and you're the first person I want to hold when I cry. You rolled off the bed once and the world stopped to absorb our tears, your body arched in my lap as we both gave into our vulnerability. There are days when I don't feel enough. Your eyes watch me as I make a fool of myself trying to be your mother, humorless and lined with perfect eyelashes, I wither in front of you. All I can do is kiss your soft cheeks and hope the next day will be kinder to me.