Ben leaves his mom and runs to me, eager to start his day in daycare. We share a hug.
When he runs off to play with his friends, his mother turns to me. "How many children do you have?"
"Oh, me? No, I don't have any. I'm not a mom."
"Too bad, you'll never know what it's like to love a child."
Her words pierce my heart.
To be a mother... That's all I want, my dearest wish.
What if that wish remains unfulfilled...?
That thought leaves me numb, faint, cold, blind to light. My womb aches to be filled with life, my breasts with milk.
A boulder grows thick and heavy in my gut. Each time I hear a baby coo, giggle or cry the rough edges of the boulder scarp against my stomach lining, I'm in pain.
How can I pass from child to elder without being a mother?
