I never thought love could ache like this.
They say motherhood is beautiful. Holy, even. They speak of joy and diapers, of first steps and first words, as though the weight of it is always wrapped in light. But no one told me that love could also feel like shame. Like a bruise I press over and over, just to remind myself it's still there.
My son is three. Loud. Messy. Brilliant. He laughs with his whole chest, the kind of laugh that makes strangers turn their heads in admiration. And everyone -everyone- says the same thing when they see him.
"He has his father's eyes"
They say it with joy, with warmth, like it's a blessing, like it's something we share.
But all I hear is what they don't say: He doesn't have yours
Because he doesn't. Not really.
I didn't carry him. He didn't come out from my body. I didnt bleed for him. I didn't break for him. We had to find someone else to do that.
Four rounds of IVF. Two miscarriages.
I still remember the sound of each heartbreak -the way hope clung to my ribs and then fell quietly. I stopped counting injections, stopped naming the months. My body became a battlefield and I lost, over and over, until the only thing left standing was a hollow kind of silence.
We chose surrogacy because it was the last door we hadn't yet knocked on.
The agency handled everything. Medical reports, psychological evaluation, contracts signed in ink that felt colder than it should have. She was healthy, stable, kind, willing.
But I asked not to meet her. I thought it would be easier that way. Cleaner, my husband agreed "No messy emotions", he said. "No confusion"
But it wasn't clean, not for me. Because now, everytime my son looks up at me with those wide, familiar eyes, I wonder who's face he sees when he dreams. Mine? His father's? Hers?
And still I love him. I do.
When he reaches for me, when his little fingers wrap around mine like I'm something steady, when he calls me Mama with his whole heart - I believe it. In that moment, I believe I was made for him.
But there are days, like today, when that belief trembles under the weight of everything I'm not.
This morning, he ran to me with a crayon drawing clutched in his fist. "Look, Mama!" He beamed. "It's me and daddy"
Two stick fingers holding hands under a crooked sun.
No mommy. Just them.
I smiled. I praised him. I kissed the top of his head like I was supposed to.
Then I walked into the kitchen and cried into a dish towel like it would soak up what I couldn't say out loud
That night, I sat at the edge of our bed, the drawing still in my hands. My husband found me there
"He didn't draw me" I say quietly
"He's three" he offered gently "He probably forgot or ran out of space"
"He never forgets you" I said
A pause. He sat beside me.
"He looks just like you" I whispered "and maybe that's why I'm scared. Because sometimes I look at him and all I see is you. And her"
His eyes softened "you shouldn't think that way"
"I think," I said, holding back the crack in my voice "that she gave you something I couldn't. And I'm afraid... that one day, he'll feel it too. That something in me doesn't quite match"
He took the drawing from my hands. Folded it gently. Then pulled me close.
"She carried him," he said "but you're his mother. The one who sings him to sleep. Who kisses his bruises and cuts the crust off his sandwiches. The one he runs to without question. He's not confused. He knows who his mother is"
I nodded, though the ache didn't vanish.
Tomorrow, he'll come running again. Arms wide, voice bright, shouting "Mama!" Like he's never doubted who I am.
And I will open my arms, even if I hesitate for half a second first, even if some part of me still aches.
Because love, I've learned, isn't just a feeling. It's a decision. A vow I keep making, every single day.
And maybe, one day, when I look into those eyes that look nothing like mine, I'll finally stop searching for myself
Because being his mother is enough.
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