Part 3 — The Fear I Was Ashamed to Admit
After the doctors left, I cried.
Not because I wanted another baby.
Not because Noah was somehow less precious to me.
I cried because I was scared.
For five years, I had imagined motherhood in thousands of little scenes.
First steps.
Birthday parties.
School pictures.
Teaching him to drive.
Arguing over homework.
Watching him grow into whoever he was meant to become.
Now I realized I had built those dreams around a future I barely understood.
I felt guilty for being frightened.
Brandon sat beside me while I held Noah.
“What if I don’t know how to give him what he needs?” I whispered.
“We’ll learn.”
“What if school is hard?”
“Then we’ll help him.”
“What if people are cruel?”
Brandon looked down at our sleeping son.
“Then we make sure he knows how deeply he’s loved before anybody else gets a chance to tell him what he’s worth.”
My throat tightened.
“What if I mess everything up?”
“You will.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged.
“So will I.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“That’s not comforting.”
“Every parent messes something up, Jannet. We apologize, learn, and try again.”
I leaned against him.
For that brief hour, I believed we were going to be okay.
Scared, yes.
Overwhelmed, probably.
But together.
Then Brandon’s mother arrived.
And everything changed.
