When you left the hospital with your firstborn, you joked about how ridiculous it is they let you take this entire human home as if you have any clue what you’re doing. She seems so fragile compared to every car on the road between the hospital and home and HOW THE HELL LONG IS THIS DRIVE because it wasn’t nearly as long from the house to the hospital before.
You all struggle to figure each other out. It takes time. There’s a lot of crying. Sometimes it’s even the baby.
She grows and grows and becomes a spirited human that you marvel at. In many ways, she’s stronger than you are. She teaches you about kindness and imagination. She grows and grows and becomes a young woman. In many ways, she is braver than you are. She teaches you about friendships and my little pony and anime and how freeing dancing in the car is at stoplights. And then one day it changes.
Except it wasn’t one day. It took months of small, tiny, almost unnoticeable changes. She started eating in her room or not eating at all. She started hiding in a fort and not coming down. She became impossible to wake up for school and she started screaming and spitting back angry words to simple requests.
The rug is ripped out and you’re falling.
You didn’t notice because you were struggling with your own stuff. You didn’t notice because she was always the happy one. You didn’t notice because she was always so independent. You didn’t notice and now you are afraid of how easy it was not to notice.
