“You found me!” I shriek, watching you two speedily crawl toward me. I hadn’t been hiding from you, but after watching you play so nicely together, I thought I had a moment to slip away and pour a cup of coffee.

But you found me, and now you raise your arms to say, “Hold me!”

I sit on the floor, hugging you on my lap, and I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. I thank God you found me — that your two tiny little souls found your way to mine.

I remember when I held you in my arms, baby…


Credit: Héloïse Appourchaux — Unsplash

Credit: Meg Jerrard — Unsplash

She’d only been in Yellowstone two nights when she locked eyes with the wild cat. It was three a.m. and she had hoped to walk the short path from her family’s tent to the outhouse, there and back, without any trouble. Having birthed two babies meant every night she woke up with the urge to empty her bladder. Now, she ignored that physical urge as she watched the mountain lion watch her — the lion’s eyes like opalescent marbles reflecting moonlight. The woman was frozen, afraid even the slightest breath would cause the cat to pounce.

But the cat stood…


Gayatri Malhotra — Unsplash

On that sunny day in the park, he appeared like he had it all figured out — this parenting thing. Behind him, a Mima Xari Stroller to hold his precious cargo; on his back, a leather diaper bag to carry a cashmere blankie. In his arms, the perfect baby. At his side, the perfect wife. He did something with hedge funds, she knew this for certain. She would see him every morning on the same 6:00am train as she was coming home from her hospital night shift. She was just a nurse whose scrubs were covered in vomit and viruses…


Jude Beck — Unsplash

There’s no going back — once you become a mother.

There’s no unseeing every child as your own.

You cannot bandage your aching heart as you watch a child in pain.

That second glass of wine will never taste as good.

You’ll never sleep soundly again.

Fireworks will send shockwaves of anxiety through your body, and local news will keep you up all night.

Your body never be the same — once firm, now soft pillow for rest.

And you won’t be able to stop a smile from tugging at your lips when you see a child learn something new.


Credit: Freestocks — Unsplash

I love you so much it hurts.

I feel the immense weight of my love for you. It pushes me down. It crushes me.

What will I do when you grow up? Who will I become?

I might shrivel up and die.

Because I feel we are still just one being. My heart still beats in synch with yours.

But we were never just one, were we? Three hearts. Three brains. You were always your own beings. I just kept you safe inside me.

I can’t do that any longer and it terrifies me. How will I keep you safe…


Linda Hinton

An icy gust burned his weather-beaten cheeks. Under his skin, redness poked through. Like a ripe berry drooping on a low bush nearly touching the ground. Up and down the asphalt he walked. Up and down. Zigzagging between traffic. Shoulders sore. Nails brittle. Bits and pieces of last night’s dinner caught between the hairs on his chin. It had still been hot when the BMW driver threw it out of his car. A crinkled up fast-food bag, soaked in grease. But the chicken sandwich was half-eaten. And it tasted good.

Just like the other greasy piece of meat someone threw…


credit: Thomas Lipke — Unsplash

Golden hour never looked so beautiful, she thought as warm, ginger sunlight haloed around the emerald firs and cobalt waters of Puget Sound. In the distance, snow-peaked mountains jutted into the sky.

She was the lone person sitting on the rocky shoreline that evening. She only had twenty minutes or so before she’d have to leave to meet the girls for cocktails at some expensive downtown restaurant. She’d forgotten the name, and had vowed not to look at her phone until the sun had set. Not even to take a photo. She didn’t have much storage left anyway from all…


Photo by Lianhao Qu on Unsplash

A sliver of sunlight sneaks its way under the bedroom door, waking her. Beside her, a tiny, warm body stirs. She’d done it again. What all the judgmental experts say not to do; what the dogmatic breastfeeding activists say to do. She’s torn — she desperately needs sleep, but her heart breaks at the thought of letting her baby cry. She’s not sure how to fix it; it doesn’t matter anyway — she doesn’t have time to think about this issue. They’re up and at ’em. And today will be a long one, just like the day before.

At noon…

Brigit Callaghan Stacey

Writer from Chicago. Loves writing about romance & magic, while sitting in nature drinking wine. Follow me at BrigitStacey.com & Instagram BrigitStacey.

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