I did for them everything I believed a good mother would do for her children and clenched my teeth and prayed it was enough, or right, or that at the very least they would be OK in spite of the depth of my brokenness.
She was mine, this sweet baby girl, but she belonged to others, too.
We named her Zoe because it means “life” and we could think of no meaning more fitting for our child.
Sixteen is full of paper thin promise, delicate due to the decisions I can’t make for her anymore, decisions that will determine what happens next.
When my dad came back after two decades of divorce, I wondered if my mom had somehow been waiting for him.
At 6:15 a.m., take the children downstairs for breakfast because, even though you are exhausted, the onus is on you. It is always on you.
She tells me she is not allowed to give lap dances or blowjobs. She smiles kindly, reassuringly, as she tells me this, as if I have been waiting for this exact information, secretly hoping she will divulge such details to assuage my motherly worries.
It goes against everything we believe about motherhood, but I’d rather bury my child than leave him behind.
By Susan Vaughan Moshofsky
On my second day in the hospital, the nurse worried that Rachel was getting little, if any, milk, so she suggested formula supplementation. I refused, determined to succeed. New mom though I was, I knew that supplementing was the Dark Side.