I took the Metro to work, looking at the other young women commuters, and wondering which of them was also among the one in four. Were any of them also miscarrying right now?
Tonight, when I slip between my own sheets, I know that we will be the same, Kate and I—each of us held beneath the weight of our fears, the things that chase us through the dark hours, the anxieties that only change their faces as we age, but never truly let us go.
My mother had never been late for a concert. Preparations for each 7:30 performance began in the morning when she would hang her white “band” shirt like a basket of begonias on the front porch, where it could bleach in the best sun.
For so long, it’s been just us, my daughter and me, connected in a deep and frightening way I never anticipated when I adopted her, becoming a single parent.
I push myself away from the door and decide to load the dishwasher. Cup, cup, bowl, plate, bowl, knife, fork. Within three minutes, the cups and plates are at jaunty angles, some utensils point up and others down. Worry breeds messy efficiency.
She was born a stranger with purple wrinkly hands on a hot, August night. It’s hard to believe now, on this cool March evening, that I haven’t always known her. I know her rosy cheeks and the way her nose turns up a little at the end.
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