Finding Willow

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I look down at the crying newborn lying on my naked chest. It’s warm, wet, covered in blood, and screaming, but I’m not bothered. This is my baby. This is the baby I have grown in my body for nine months. This is the baby I nurtured. I love it. I could never hate my own baby, despite the circumstances through which it was created.

“Merry Christmas! It’s a girl,” the nurse exclaims while they rub the baby’s tiny body down. They scrub all the fluids off of her. Her cries turn into little whimpers and soon, she is rooting for my breast. Finding it with ease, she starts to suckle and, for the first time in my life, I feel love. I love this little girl more than life itself. I love my daughter. I love Willow.

As she nurses, I examine every feature on her plump little face. Her lips are full, her cheeks are chubby and squishy, a small dimple graces the right side of her face, and, as her eye lids flutter, I can see the smallest bit of blue leading me to believe she has her father’s eyes.

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