Eight years ago, I conceived. Like many unplanned creations, it's difficult to pinpoint exactly when or where that moment occurred--but somewhere, in some chaotic and wild period of time filled with heartbreak and loss, self-discovery and exploration, hope and fear--a charming chance encounter breathed life into a vague and fuzzy speck of an idea that would change the course of my life forever.
The idea was born--brought into the world fresh and vulnerable, and over the years has grown into a strong and healthy entity with a voice of its own and an unfolding fate before it. My life, my time, and my money has been all about it. Everything has been done with This Thing's existence and success in mind.
Mothers know this experience and espouse the glory of their love for their children--making this otherwise unbearable burden a proud honor instead.
But I do not love my child; this creation.
Like a mother entrapped in the throes of postpartum, I begrudgingly do what I assume I must, and go through the motions of caring while the crushing weight of more and more responsibility eats away at the life of my own I used to know.
What do you do with a child you do not love? What do you do when a Thing, an Idea, a Dream, a Wish, a simple Fancy--has become more than you could have ever possibly imagined?
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