I cried because I’d never felt so sure that I wanted to be a mother, but that I didn’t want to be a mother yet.

by Amelia Hanson

July 8, 2018

Twenty Four,

That night, I dreamt about our daughter. She was on the swings, she was beautiful, and she loved me.

Two days before I was sure, I was sitting outside, looking at the stars, wishing my gut feeling was wrong, knowing it was right.

The day I found out, an hour before, I just wanted in and out of that store. But I had to pick up a dented box, so the cashier could wave my test around for everyone to see, to make sure I didn’t want a different one. I did not. I didn’t have time for that and, as a woman, that Target lady should have known better..

The day we met, you wore a blue and black striped sweater. We barely talked. You spent the night.

The day we said goodbye, we went to the zoo. You didn’t kiss me. You touched my shoulder and told me to take care.

When it happened, just hours before I felt our child leave my body, you touched my shoulder and said goodbye.

On our first date, I was hung-over and gorgeous in a tight maroon dress. You wore tails. We got breakfast and went to the zoo and you didn’t hold my hand until an hour into the movie, despite the fact that you had already slept with me.

The day of conception, I was ready to tell you I loved you. It was Mother’s Day, we were in a hotel downtown. And I did, love you. You didn’t. I knew if I said it, it would turn on me, but I wanted to. Instead, I told you about the dinosaurs.

Sometimes, I wonder, if I had ignored them, just said it, would it have been different? Could our child have been conceived in love? Probably not.

You never wanted to be a father. You never wanted to monogamous. You never wanted to love me. You were the dinosaur. I knew this and I still loved you.

Nothing would have changed our outcome. She wasn’t meant to be. I knew that before I was sure. I knew before I told you. I always knew that she wasn’t the one, and you weren’t the one.

The night before, you held me in your arms and we were silent. I could feel your tears on my back. I felt my own fall across my cheeks as I faced the fact that in the morning I was giving up something I thought I would have to work to have. I cried because I’d never felt so sure that I wanted to be a mother, but that I didn’t want to be a mother yet.

I never asked why you cried, and I didn’t want to. You didn’t love me, you didn’t feel the same, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt you too.


That day. The Fourth of July.

Once everyone left my side.

I sat on my couch alone and cried and hated you.

Not because you didn’t love me. Not because you got me in that situation. Because you left. Right when things were about to get bad, and messy, and hard. Before it hurt, before I bled, before I really felt the pain, you left.

The dinosaurs were still there, but I couldn’t forgive you. I never will. You could never feel what I did, but you should have been there.

Two months later, you held me, kissed me, looked at me like you did before it happened. The dinosaurs came rampaging back, and somehow I loved you even more, but I still couldn’t tell you.

Today, I don’t regret my choices. Maybe you do, I hope so. Not that it matters; it’s all gone the way of the dinosaurs now.


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