Two Unrelated Hearts

I have given birth three times: twice of my body and once of my heart. It's a complicated thing-- telling a story that's not your own. Knowing where to draw the boundaries. Knowing what to share, which details to skip like smooth rocks on the water's surface.

There's a space between where his story ends and mine begins. I'm looking for that place today, that intersection between two unrelated hearts.

When I say that motherhood has changed me, he is why. At 8 he still holds my hand when we walk together, latching on with the hunger of a newborn. But it is love, not need, that compels this child.

When people comment that He's so lucky, I mean what I say in response: No, I'm the lucky one. He delivered me from thinking that nothing beautiful could come from pain. He is the One Good Thing.

When he asks me the hard questions, I listen first. I lay out all the possible answers on a table in my mind, imagine the words rising high. I am careful with him. I tend to his heart, search for its soft spots, look for the places that cast the most light.

I'm not sure what I believe about fate. I do not know if there's a Greater Plan. But I do know this: there is a reason he sits at this particular kitchen table. There is a reason he climbs into this particular bed.

The day he was born, God lined up the stars for me.

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