Reade Saunders

I thought your birth might fix me.

You arrived with the smell of lemons still in my mouth, and something broken already in my chest. I told people you saved my life (and you did) but I never told them I was terrified I might ruin yours.

Dennis was gone most weeks, and the walls in that new house pressed in like wet cloth. I’d cry with you in my arms and hope you didn’t notice. But you always did. You were a clever baby, too clever. You cried like someone already betrayed.

I didn’t know how to be a mother. I’d never been taught. I was still trying to mother myself.

When I met Peter, I mistook his steadiness for safety. He adored you, and I let him love you the way I couldn’t—not because I didn’t want to, but because I was scared I would damage you worse if I tried too hard.

I worked, I travelled, I missed you.

You went to boarding school with a hamster and no goodbye from me. I told myself it was normal. That women who worked were strong. But really, I just didn’t want you to watch me falling apart again.

And when you started flying, I thought: well, at least he knows how to leave properly.

This is not an apology, Tommy.

This is a map of the fire I handed you at birth, so maybe one day you’ll know where the smoke came from.