Once upon a time I was a very calm mama when my daughter was sick. Then a procedure-happy pediatrician planted a seed of fear in the back of my brain and my baby died. The one-two punch shook me off my instincts. I remind myself that I am not crazy for needing to rest my hand on my daughter’s soft belly, the gentle rise and fall of her breath reassuring me that she is here, alive, sweetly asleep.
Last night I went to bed and burst into tears, whispering into the darkness, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Why do I feel like I’m being punished?