2:17am
On night terrors, invisible questions, and choosing the life that fits.
There is a particular kind of quiet that only happens at 2:17am,
the hour when the house is dark, the world is sleeping,
and I am sitting on the edge of my daughter’s bed.
Holding her through another night terror,
another fit, another rise and fall of breath that needs me.
Her hair sticks to her forehead,
Her fists curl and uncurl against my chest,
the hum of the white noise machine becomes a kind of tide
washing the same wave over us again and again.
And in that suspended minute,
that minute that lasts a century,
my mind is split cleanly in two.
One part stays with her.
Watches the way her eyelashes flutter
like tiny wings trying to lift her back into sleep.
Feels the heat of her cheek on my shoulder.
Knows the shape of her breathing as intimately
as I know the sound of my own name.
The other part drifts out of the room entirely.
Floats up to the ceiling
hangs there like a ghost version of me
counting every question I’ve ever been asked:
Won’t she be lonely?
Is that fair to her?
What happens when you die?
Doesn’t she need a sibling to play with?
The questions pile up like laundry
I never consented to fold.
And I’ve held them all.
To the point of nausea.
To the point of insomnia.
To the point where joy gets tangled in the wondering.
People ask as if I haven’t interrogated each one until the edges blurred
and the answers dissolved into more questions.
If I haven’t already lived inside every version
of every possible future
for years.
As if I haven’t stood at every edge,
peering down into the life we might have had.
If I could split myself into two mothers.
If I could split time into something more generous.
If I could split my heart into something that didn’t break at the thought
of being shared one more time.
Believe me… I’ve run every simulation in the dark.
The truth… that heavy, un-pretty truth…
is that the deepest part of me doesn’t want to share any of this.
Not her breath on my collarbone.
Not the way she folds herself info me when she’s half asleep.
Not the constellation of our lives that I have memorized with devotion.
I want this depth,
this exact intensity,
this singular ferocious all consuming bond,
that makes sense in my bones even when it makes no sense to anyone else.
And I am so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for that.
Because what no one tells you:
sometimes the bravest decision is to stay where you are.
To not expand.
To not stretch your life in ways other people expect.
To let the shape of your family be the shape that actually fits
your heart, your health, your limits, your truth.
Sometimes courage looks like choosing the life you already have
and letting that be enough.
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'If I could split my heart...' Mother of one here, it feels great being seen like this.
Beautifully expressed ❤️