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They don’t tell you that although breastfeeding is touted as the most natural option, it feels alien. And nothing can prepare you for the oddness of the initial latch.
“I don’t know what to name her,” I murmur, staring down at her soft skin as her eyes drift shut. “It’s such a huge responsibility.”
“We have some time. Get to know her and then decide,” he assures me, and I twist my lips, unsure if I can truly do this.
But she’s here. It’s too late to back down. It’s not like I can shove her back up there.
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he announces as he strolls over to press a kiss to my forehead.
“Don’t take too long,” I urge him, afraid to be alone with her. Afraid I might do something wrong.
“I’m grabbing the food and I’ll be right back,” he promises. I made him order us a pizza, unable to stomach the bland hospital food.
He walks out and then it’s just the two of us.
And if I thought being the larger person of the two of us made me in charge, I was wrong. I know, in this moment, I’ll do anything to keep her from crying. I’m at this six-pound baby’s mercy.
Even as I stare at her, I can see Abraham in her features. His miniature nose on her face, the dark hair—far darker than even my natural color—the long lashes that cast shadows over her little cheeks.
All things I wish he could see for himself. Things I can’t say out loud.
Tears fill my eyes as I think about what he would want to name her. How he won’t have a say…won’t make choices about her upbringing. Won’t be able to give herhislast name.
Living in a world where he doesn’t know her…doesn’t even know she exists? It breaks me. Tears slide down my cheeks at the sheer enormity of her existence and the fact that he knows nothing about it.
Peter will be a great father. But not giving Abraham the option to try isn’t right. I can’t follow through with our agreement.
So, I break my promise to Peter.
I set her in her bassinet and grab my phone, unsure how to do this. Do I try to text him? Does he have the same number?
Should I try to email him? But how? Where would I send it?
I opt for a letter, remembering the address of his place in New York. I’ll draft the letter up, send it in the mail, and be done with it.
And if he doesn’t live there anymore, maybe the person there will know where to forward the letter. It’s a long shot, but the only one I can take.
Abraham,
I had a baby girl. She’s half yours.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
I’m married now and he’ll be a good father. But if you want to be her father too, I can’t take that from you.
If you’d like to meet her and be in her life, you have my number.
- Sabrina
Secretly, I check my phone for months for any word from him after I’ve sent the letter. I name her after my mother, wanting to break a cycle…to give a new beginning to a name that’d caused so much pain.
I give Peter another child, Jilly, who we name after his mother. She felt like a consolation prize, cementing the notion that he’d stay and rewarding him for doing so.
I wasn’t ready to have kids back-to-back, but Peter insisted we have them close together and get the pregnancies over with. And with his support, I did so. Even during the back-breaking work of starting my own business.
But in the rare quiet moments, I wonder if my letter ever made it to Abraham, thinking that if he knew, he’d reach out.
If I’m being honest, I wait for a response for a year before I finally let him go.
