Not until I seeit.
My heart stops. I scroll back up. The photo I just quickly scrolled past will surely show me a couple who onlylookslike them. It’s not actually them.
But the second I lay eyes on the photo again, I can’t deny the truth. Nor can I stop the icy dread from spreading across my veins.
The photo looks innocent enough. If I’d seen it under any other circumstances, I might have been just fine. But seeing my parents’ smiling faces glaring back at me—a photo shared by a cousin of mine—is all it takes for me to snap.
I scream then. A blood-curling scream that rattles every bone in my body.
They’re nothere
Theyshouldbe here
I’m losing my mind, when will this end
I need my mommy and daddy I need them I NEED THEM NOW
Please, oh God, make it stop, I need help, I need HELP!
“I’ve got you.”
He’s…
Yes, he’s got me in his arms…
I can feel the warmth of him seeping through my skin. He’s here. But he’s drowning, too. I know that, I can sense it when I look in his eyes and see the heavy shadows, and when I notice how pale his skin has gotten.
The words keep pouring out of me on repeat:
“I need help, I need help, I need help…”
And Karan, my husband… I love him even more than before when he finally responds:
“It’s okay, I’m going to get us help.”
I’m calm and dry in my bed, lost in a dreamless sleep, when Martine finally arrives from her long drive down from Val-d’Or. I only awaken to pump my milk so I don’t disrupt my supply, then sink right back into sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I awaken again, Karan’s familiar shape is cocooned around my back. His chest rises and falls steadily against me. So he’s asleep, too.
I smile as I close my eyes. Good. He desperately needed the rest, too.
The past six weeks have been a complete fever dream. For both of us.
No wonder I had a complete meltdown.
When I was little and imagined myself becoming a mom, it was always very clear that I would do so with my parents in the picture. I imagined my mother giving me breastfeeding advice, or my father, rarely a calm man, softly rocking my baby to sleep.
Their actions have robbed us all of that reality. And now, I’m left grieving for people who are still alive… for moments I never got to have, and never will.
Soft music flows from the living room. Martine must have put on a lullaby to soothe the twins. Already, despite the heavy fatigue that still weighs on my frame, a tug at my chest pulls me towards them.
Because they’re mine.
I pull away from Karan, careful not to awaken him, and step out into the hallway. Martine’s happy humming mixes in with the lullaby. But when I arrive in the living room, the vision I had in my head doesn’t align with the sight in front of me.
My babies are propped on their tummy on a soft blanket lying on the floor, their gazes fixed forward. In front of them is a propped up smartphone, the screen blaring out the lullaby along with quick successions of bright images and colours.
Martine is there, too, but she’s sitting on the couch as she hums, her hands busy folding laundry that I haven’t had time to get to.
