Every Precious and Fragile Thing

by Barbara Davis

Motherhood doesn’t come with a set of instructions. Sometimes, the box arrives damaged and some of the pieces are missing. But you own it now, this

job you weren’t ready for, and so you muddle through. You make mistakes, sometimes horrible ones, and there’s nothing to do but live with them.”

Life hands us all our share of regrets. Don’t live with the ones you don’t have to. Mend your fences while you can—as soon as you can.

If someone needs you, be there, whatever it costs. Because you might not get another chance.”

She knew about ketamine—the so-called date rape drug. It rendered a victim incapable of fighting

What? No ketamine is not a date rape drug. For the love of God. No wonder the general population is so misinformed about pharmaceuticals. The crap information is everywhere. Disgusting.

“Mothers are complicated. You grow up thinking you know who they are. And then something happens and you realize they have all these layers, pieces of themselves you didn’t know were there—because they’ve been carrying around stuff you knew nothing about. But maybe it goes the other way too. Maybe mothers don’t always see their children as they really are.

entropy popped into her head—the theory that, left unchecked, disorder tended to increase over time. It was true. Nothing stayed the same. Things were always shifting, dissolving and reforming into something else. Sometimes it happened while you weren’t looking, other times while you were, but nothing stayed the same. Things ended. People left. Sometimes they even died.

always was a dangerous word. It was a promise, easy to make in the moment but ultimately harder to keep.

“It’s easy to judge when it isn’t you, to think you’d be strong enough to say no,

but when it’s someone you love, someone you’ve given your whole heart to, you’ll forfeit your soul to ease their pain.”

Mothers aren’t supposed to have yesterdays. To our children, we’re blank slates, patiently awaiting their appearance so our lives can finally begin. In their minds, we’ve kept no secrets, dreamed no dreams, committed no sins. But few of us come to motherhood unmarked by life. We’ve had pasts and passions—and yes, regrets.

The idea was both intriguing and unsettling—the road not taken.

How quickly life can change direction. A call answered. A path forsaken. A single moment of choice and everything suddenly becomes irrevocable.

“To decide who raises my daughter? I’m her mother, Helen. I know what’s best for her.

We all have our stories, our particular sorrows, though not all of us wish them to be known.

I live in constant fear of harming her. Not of dropping her or scalding her, but of damaging her in some deep and irreparable way. Because I know firsthand how many ways there are to harm a child, and I know they don’t always involve physical scars.

Fuck. That was a gut punch. So very true.