Silence falls into our little room and I know Thomas is waiting for me to say something. But I have nothing smart to say, so I simply comb his hair with my fingers, thinking back on how I felt about having a child. I hated almost every moment of my pregnancy. Not just once have I cried crocodile tears as I bent over the toilet bowl to throw up. Not just once have I called my out child, while growing in my womb, a greedy parasite that ate my energy away. Not just one night has been spent overthinking motherhood.
And not just once has Thomas not been supportive. He was there for each of these things. He was there to pin my hair back and hand me tissues when snot would make it hard to breathe as I whined about how big my ankles were. When he thought I was asleep, he’d mutter sweet nothings t
