Only Myself
I went everywhere with Luke. Returning to work meant I handed him over to the women who ran the crèche, and after two hours of teaching, I would return, and they would suggest I go have a cup of tea so they could cuddle him some more. Unlike other babies, Luke did not pitch a fit when I gave them that extra time. Lying in their arms he had the swagger of a human that understands he is beloved. He would twinkle and wave me off, so I would creep to a nearby café and attempt to write. This was torture. Just as I was unable to sustain a writing practice in active alcoholism, in sober motherhood, I found the same obstacles. The path by which I had disappeared into the story, especially in my first novel, Parting Is All We Know of Heaven, was now littered with thoughts of my baby, his dimple, his knees, his face, his perfectly round, bald head.
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Broken
The list is long: asylum seekers, women, immigrants, people of color, LGBTQ people, the physically challenged, and anyone who needs help or has failed to be a billionaire. He is a slum lord, a liar, a rapist, a would-be dictator who talks about “the enemy within” and can barely pronounce words that any self-respecting third grader would find easy. This person inspires violence and shows contempt for education, diversity, and kindness.
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Mother Person
How to make it work without any friends or family near us, just the two of us and this person, this boy, this child I had carried for nine months and spent seventy-two hours laboring to give birth to, was a mystery. I had been transformed, replaced, obliterated and then abandoned. I stood in front of the mirror and saw why I was given the body I was given. I stood in front of the mirror and grieved for the years of slender and unmarked beauty that I had regarded as never good enough. I was proud, sad, angry and confused.
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