I used to think that there was a black hole inside me that nothing could fill. Then I had a daughter. I remember the first time that I put her to sleep. I was standing, holding her in my arms, rocking her. I was looking at her all the time. She was looking up at me. I began to feel that she trusted me, that she felt safe. She must have done because her eyelids started closing little by little, and then she was asleep. That’s a good memory.
This is it. She can finally go to Harvard like she’s always wanted and get the education that I never got and get to do all the things that I never got to do and then I can resent her for it and we can finally have a normal mother-daughter relationship.
I think about my daughter now, and what she was spared. Sometimes I feel grateful. The doctor said she didn’t feel a thing, went straight into a coma. Then, somewhere in that blackness, she slipped off into another deeper kind. Isn’t that a beautiful way to go out, painlessly as a happy child? Trouble with dying later is you’ve already grown up. The damage is done. It’s too late.