I'm the youngest on the program, and people often ask if that's a wedding band on my finger. I nod awkwardly. Who cares if I married young?
The next question is obvious. "Do you have children?" I smile politely, and answer: "no." I see the relief on their faces and my heart breaks.
I'd like to scream at the top of my lungs that I do. That they are not with me, but they existed. That I am a mother of angels. I'm not there yet.
I'd like to be able to talk about them without breaking down. I'd like to talk about my children... Just like everyone else gets to talk about theirs.
I'd like to complain about not being able to sleep in on Saturdays, because my children are so loud I'm up at 6. I'd like to come home exhausted from the program and help them with their homework. I'd like for them to call me while I'm at school. These are privileges parents often take for granted. Oh how I wish to share my heartache.
Instead, I sit there and listen to others tell me I'm too young to think about children, that I should "live my life" and "have fun" with my husband before we even think about having children. I stare. My mind wonders off. I try to keep up with the lecture.
While Dr. Archer discusses Northouse's views on Leadership, I can hear my screams asking A to forgive me. I'm back at the hospital and I can see my husband's face as he looks at A for the first time. I see everyone panic as they bring him to me, afraid of my reaction. Who was it that brought him to me? I can't seem to remember that. How did I get there?
I'm scared. I hold him, but I'm afraid he might break. I'm afraid I might break him, as if I had not done enough already. I'm afraid to touch him.
I think about my dissertation. Four years from now, I see myself typing my dedication:
"To my angels. There is no greater truth: I will forever wonder who you would have been."
