W

Given the chance, I would have been a different kind of mother. Not like those I see around town, barely out of childhood themselves, pulling along wailing, snotty brats. No: I would have been different. Better. I would have sung my girls to sleep, turned tantrums around with a chuckle, put my phone away. My children would never have eaten a depressing Happy Meal. My babies wouldn’t have pierced ears or screen time. My girls would have been just perfect. Of course they would.

And I would have known all the mothers in this playground, too. The ones jogging behind their prams, baggy t-shirts masking their self-consciousness. Tummies that held babies, breasts that nourish. Their worlds contracting and expanding into just each other.

I lean towards them like a flower craving light, invisible barely steps away. Leaning into their unbearable, messy beauty. Feeling utterly unmoored, yet unable to leave. Rooted.

Then she looks at me. The tiny beauty with the chocolate curls, holding her mother’s hand. I feel the leaves of my unspent motherhood unfurl into her gaze. Enchanted. Yes, I think, I would have loved you. And I dream, just briefly, of her warm hand in mine. Of a yellow room with white lace curtains. Of sleepless nights and precious days.

I risk a wave and a half-smile, but as I move a mother’s instincts sharpen. Arms hold their little ones close. Sensing my loss. Fearing it.

The mothers turn to go, and I realise: I would have been just the same. Unable to look loss in the eye. Fleeing what we all become in the company of such unbearable absence.

Even so, I wish I could have met that woman. The woman I would have been. If only I had been a different kind of mother.