Uncertainty slips in like long shadows from the trees. I shiver, wonder if I’ve done the right thing, taking these two little girls away from their father, dividing everything: a house, a dining room set, their chances for someday finding love that doesn’t look like half of something.
Morgan nursed him carefully. The room was dimly lit; evening had descended. I swallowed against the sudden threat of tears. I felt helpless, and tired, and proud of my wife, and distant from her. Indeed, I felt very far away from anything I’d ever known.
I hate when fish die, loathe the inevitable conversation with a woebegone child about the fact that all living things must die, worry that if this fish expires, my youngest child will do the math about his much older parents’ odds for longevity.
Melissa Scholes Young
You learn not sleeping makes you furious. It isn’t the baby’s fault. How could it be? It’s His fault, the one who is sleeping when you are walking and nursing and diapering and worrying and nursing and patting and pacing and nursing.
There is nothing but the shuffling of the children still near me, the ones who still feel the primal need for the proximity and guidance I can offer. They’ll follow my daughter’s lead eventually, until all of my children are in the world without me.
I have lived so long with my anxiety that I forget that it’s not normal to freeze in the middle of what you’re doing and cry no, no, no, no, no just because the thought of your death pops into your head. My earliest memory is of having a panic attack about death, rocking myself in a tight little ball as I realized that at some point I would cease to exist and I was powerless to stop it.
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