A week ago, I would’ve said yes. Terrified, actually. But that night, something had shifted.
“Not about the baby. I’m scared about everything else. About what happens next.
About whether I can do this alone.”
“You won’t be alone, dear. I meant what I said earlier. You and this baby are my priority.
Whatever my son decides to do, you’ll have me.”
Another strong kick made me gasp. This little person inside me was running out of room. Soon, very soon, I’d hold my child in my arms.
“I keep wondering what I’ll tell this baby about tonight,” I whispered. “About their father choosing a party over being here.”
Grace reached over and took my hand. “You’ll tell them they were wanted.
Desperately wanted by their mother and grandmother. That’s what matters.”
The house felt different then. Quieter.
Like everything had changed in the span of one dinner conversation. Alan still hadn’t come home. I wondered if he was still at his sister’s apartment celebrating his “freedom.”
The baby kicked again, stronger this time.
Like they’re ready to meet this complicated world I’ve brought them into. I placed both hands on my belly and whispered, “I don’t know what your daddy’s thinking right now, little one. But I promise you this: You will never doubt that you’re loved.
Not for one second.”
Very soon, I’ll have decisions to make. Hard ones. About my marriage.
About what kind of example I want to set for my children. About whether some behavior is simply unforgivable. As I write this now, I’m just a mother waiting for her baby to arrive.
I’m surrounded by people who truly love us. And I’m ready to fight for the family I want my children to have, even if that family looks different than I once imagined. The rest?
Well, we’ll figure it out once the baby arrives.
