Q

by Christina Dalcher

It started with fear, and it ended with laws.

I want to run out in the rain to where she’s standing under her umbrella. Give her a banana, an oatmeal bar, hot chocolate, a hug. I want to tell her failing a test doesn’t make her a failure. But it does. In this age, it does.

The problem here is childishly simplistic: The jobs are disappearing and the people aren’t.

Before Oma closes her bedroom door, I say, “It wouldn’t happen here, Oma. This is the United States.” “Oh, my darling girl,” she says, sighing. “Where do you think my great-uncle Eugen got the idea?”

It’s too easy to think of yourself as the one who stands up when everyone else sits down, but I wonder if I have it in me to be that selfless.

Maybe all mothers are semi-insane. Maybe that’s part of the deal we make when we decide to let our bodies become hosts,

They say it’s postpartum depression. Or hormones. Or who knows what. But I knew then what the deal was—a simple matter of trading myself for my baby, should it ever come to that.