short of three months, and you still can’t connect to her. every morning you stand at the foot of her crib; waiting to see if she’ll wake. unmoving; swaddled; head lolling to one side. there’s a quick rise and fall to her chest —— then it stops. it stops for too long and you don’t panic.

you don’t rush to place a finger beneath her nose; you don’t look for breath.

and she always does —— she always wakes —— even on the days you wish she wouldn’t.

he tells you some women aren’t meant to be mothers . . . your husband. he makes you think of the woman who birthed you and it makes sense that you feel nothing for your own babe.

your mom never felt much for you.

it’s almost seven a.m. and you’re in cordelia’s room. her father stands behind you, a hand on your shoulder as a half-hearted means of comfort. there’s whiskey on your breath; white powder clings to your nostrils; sticks to smudged lipstick.

carrion red.

he says, “it’s your first mother’s day.”
he adds, “you should be happy.”

you romanticise your life before your daughter. before your marriage. before you became tethered to two whole beings with emotions and thoughts beyond your control. your eyes sting because you picture the what ifs:

what if you used protection.
what if you took a trip to the clinic.
what if god simply intervened.

you cry because you catch yourself wishing your child had been nothing more than nectar dripping down your thighs. her father thinks you’re sad because you miss your own mother.

not because you wish hadn’t become one.

he says, “you can’t keep letting her haunt you.”
he adds, “it’ll turn you into a ghost, too.”

and doesn’t that sound nice?