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| CHP 1- The Day she first held me My mother held me for the first time under the harsh hospital lights, her hands trembling as she pulled me against her chest like she'd been waiting her whole life for that moment. I don't remember the world the day I was born, but I remember the way my mother looked at me. Or maybe it's better to say — I remember the way she felt. The moment they placed me in her arms, still warm, still messy from my arrival, her whole soul cracked wide open. Her smile trembled, caught between hope and heartbreak, and tears gathered in her eyes like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to cry. If I could speak then, I would've told her those weren't sad tears at all — they were the kind that spill out when something finally goes right in your life. She kept whispering the same words, over and over like a prayer only we could hear: "That's my daughter. That's my daughter." No one else in the room mattered to her. Not the nurses with their "She's gorgeous!" or "She's perfect!" Not the quiet family and friends dropping in and out. Not even the empty space where my father should've been. She felt that absence like a bruise — angry, stinging — but she held onto me tighter. She told herself she wasn't alone. She told herself she had her aunt, her cousin, her friends. Maybe not the people she wanted, but the people she had. And for her, that was enough. At night in the hospital, she held me close and made promises I wouldn't understand for years. Promises she'd spend the rest of her life trying to keep. A better life. Safety. Love. Protection. Forever. I didn't know it then, but those promises would become the heartbeat of our entire story. A Couch, a Swing, and a Mother Learning How to Be One When she finally brought me "home," it wasn't to a nursery or a picture-perfect room with pastel walls. It was to my cousin Brandy and Brian's living room — clean, organized, stable, and safe. My mother slept on the couch. See full chapter on my profile |
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