of motherhood

Your baby? She asks, visibly amused.

You’re beaming with pride as you talk. Yes, my baby. I am the one who tells him bedtime stories, wakes him up with kisses and irons his clothes and cooks for him and packs his school bag and helps him with homework and goes to his PTA meetings. I am the one who hand-painted the t-shirt he’s wearing right now. I am the one he comes to with bruises on his knees. I’m the one he counts on to protect him, you know. So yes, he is my baby more than he’s yours.

The resounding slap on the face that follows leaves you perplexed. She walks out, slamming the door behind her. You quickly cover your little brother’s exposed ear with your hand. He smiles in his sleep, reaches out to hold your hand and falls asleep again.