Jeff is sleeping next to me, breathing in and out. His face, at rest, looks so young. His eyelashes make a shadow-fringe on his cheekbones. It is the middle of the afternoon and we are home from work, and so tired.
His daughter is quiet inside of me for now; she has been feeling her cage all day, fretfully knocking her knees and elbows against the walls, trying to assert herself. But now she is gentle: a flutter, a brush.
There is this peace between us three for a moment. And I am torn, in some ungrateful way, because I know that it is transient. There will be no quiet afternoons, dreaming silently together of a shapeshifting child who could be anything, watching my husband sleep and remembering how I came to love him so much, how I love him with this single-minded fervor that he returns to me so generously.
I hope that our reserves of love are nearly infinite, expanding and merging and embracing, but there is a part of me that fears this new sun, this new center to our lives, this new love.
I know that she will change us; I fear that she will consume us. It is a cowardly thought, wanting to keep this oneness with Jeff just as it is, knowing that it cannot be. We will love her, we will expand, we will deepen, we will change, we will adjust. We will still love each other, and maybe even more. But it will be different. In ways we cannot imagine, it will be different.