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Everyone in the room cheered. Mama grinned so big but with clouded eyes. She began to laugh, a joyous laughter that I hadn’t heard in such a long time.
“She’s beautiful.”
The nurse, smiling wide, brought her over to me, the baby’s face making contact against my own.
She stopped crying, squinting her eyes and blinded by the light. It was all surreal, the elation in the room and the overjoyed miracle of birth. But I was exhausted, waiting for this moment of love to wash over me like everyone said it would. There was something that stirred, an unknown emotion, but all I could see was his face.
All I see is him.
“I’m so proud of you, honey. I told you, you’ll fall in love from the moment you see her.”
I smiled, forced. “You’re right, Mama, that’s exactly how I feel.”
That moment remains crystal clear. The moment that every woman dreams about, just not me. I never wanted babies. I never wanted to have a family and pass on Mama’s disease. No one, and I mean no one, understands the pain of watching their mother suffer as much as I have. Each time, each memory loss fuels my sadness and throws me deeper into depression.
And just when I began to climb out, see a small ray of light, the nightmare continues its wretched domination.
She’s lying beside me dressed in a little pink bunny outfit that Phoebe insisted she wear. Her face has changed, a chubby little girl with light eyes and wispy brown hair. Something about her face, something I couldn’t quite distinguish, reminded me of him. It was the shape of her eyes, perhaps, nothing like my almond shape. Or maybe it was her tiny hands, the shape of her nails that mirrored his.
I still thought about him.
Every day.
Every time I looked at her.
She stirred, softly, and when that stir was the beginning of a cry, I scooped her in my arms. I was tired. She didn’t take to sleeping well, and my breasts didn’t produce the milk as they should. I felt like a failure, a sign that I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. I was not sure when I last washed my hair or even shaved my legs.
It was all about her.
Just her and me.
I watched her again, and surely, she must realize I was complaining about her as a sweet smile played on her lips. My heart began to flutter, my smile in tow. I laughed, softly to myself, wishing Mama could see this.
Quickly, hoping to recap this moment, I placed her in her carrier and headed over to visit Mama. She loved seeing Katerina, and I was excited, for once, to have her in my arms.
It was a short drive over, enough to keep Katerina settled. The moment I arrived, a doctor ushered me in, asking me to take a seat.
“Miss Milenov, we wanted to speak to you in private.” He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Unfortunately, we received your mother’s results back, and they aren’t good.”
My stomach omits a sick growl, making it difficult to breathe and focus. “What’s… what’s wrong?”
“We found a tumor beside her brain. It’s cancerous and has spread. We can’t operate.”
My hands began to shake, his words absolute nonsense. “What do you mean you can’t operate?”
“It has spread, and it’s too late. I’m sorry.”
I shook uncontrollably. “How long… how long do we have?”
“It’s a difficult question. I can’t really ans—”
“Answer me!”
Katerina jolted at my scream, crying in symphony inside her carrier.
“Anywhere between weeks to months. I’m sorry.”
Her cries amplified, and with my anger gripping me, I picked her up and hushed her, rocking her back and forth with no luck. The doctor suggested that she took her off my hands, but I pulled her back, warning her not to touch my baby.
