EMMALINE
Later that night, I stand outside his door and tell myself I’m ready.
I’m not ready.
But I’m here anyway, which has to count for something.
The walk from my room feels like crossing a great distance — not in steps but in everything the steps mean. Every inch of hallway is another argument with myself, another reason to turn back, another reason to keep going. I keep moving only because standing still feels worse.
I don’t know what’s ahead. I don’t know if I can do this.
But I know one thing with a certainty that surprises me when I find it — if I keep this baby, I will love it with everything I have. Every fractured, complicated, imperfect piece of me. I will not fail it. Whatever else I am, whatever else I’ve done, I will not fail this child.
And maybe — the thought comes
