Supportive Therapies
I was twenty-four when I became a mother.
But I didn’t feel like a mother.
Not at first.
All night long, while I was giving birth, I imagined the moment they would place my baby on my chest. I imagined crying with joy. I imagined my husband, Brian, holding my hand, smiling through his tears, and telling me our son was perfect.
But when my baby was born, the room fell silent.
Too silent.
No one laughed.
No one said, “Congratulations.”
No one told me he was beautiful.
The doctor lowered his voice and said carefully,
“Your baby has Down syndrome.”
I didn’t understand.
I just remember looking at the nurse’s face. She looked sad, as if someone had already broken the terrible news to me before I’d even had a chance to love my baby.
Then I looked at Brian.
He stood against the wall, pale and frozen.
He didn’t ask to hold the baby.
He didn’t even come closer.
Later, when they took our son for tests, Brian sat down next to my bed and whispered,
“We can’t do this.”
I slowly turned my head.
He looked at the floor.
“We’re young. We’re not ready for this kind of life.”
This kind of life.
Those words stayed in my chest like a stone.
I cried and told him this was our baby.
But Brian kept talking.
Doctors.
Money.
Hospitals.
People who would stare.
A life that would never be normal.
And I was so tired. So weak. So scared.
By morning, fear had filled the place where joy should have been.
The social worker came with the papers.
Brian stood next to me, not holding my hand, just watching.
“It’s only temporary,” he said. “Just until we start thinking clearly.”
But I knew.
A mother knows when something is goodbye.
Before I signed, the nurse brought my son to me for the last time.
He was wrapped in a white blanket.
So small.
So quiet.
His tiny lips moved as if searching for me.
The nurse placed him next to my shoulder.
I touched his cheek with one finger.
He opened his tiny hand and closed it around my finger.
