Right now
The joy. The excitement. And the small fear underneath both.
You are working on the name. Decorating the nursery. Learning how to breathe when the day comes.
Every parent who ever lived has said the same about the rest of it: nobody hands you a guide.
That is changing.
From here
Walk the life you are about to be handed.
The first hour
Somebody who has never been cold.
Fourteen months
The first word, and it is one of yours.
Two
The year of no, and how you answer it.
This is the year a child finds out whether being difficult makes her less loved.
Five
She walks into a room of strangers and stays herself.
Nine
Old enough to know exactly when a room is wrong.
Thirteen
Further away, and still holding what you gave her.
Sixteen
The promise the two of you made, before she had a name.
She reads it for the first time
And on
A grown woman who has never once had to wonder.
Every line here is mine, and yours to strike. This page asks you for none of it — no address, no account, and no words. It is a walk rather than a form.