fear

During your mother’s pregnancy, I thought about her dying every day. Sometimes I dreamt about it. Not because it’s something I wanted, but because I was desperately afraid.

Afraid she’d die but you’d survive and I’d have to not only go on living without her, but would also need to somehow learn to be your father and somehow teach you how to become a person.

Afraid you’d die in the process of being born and what that would do to us, to me, to your mother.

How would we survive all of this?

And so I was afraid. Afraid of death and dying, of being left alone as a survivor, of living through such a shattering experience.

I don’t know why this is where my thoughts first raced to, and continued to race to.

But it’s why when you were born I wanted you to know that I was not afraid anymore. And I’m not.

I’m probably still not ready for you, even though you’re three months old, and maybe I never will be, but I’m no longer afraid of you.

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