I’ve imagined myself with a child recently. The moments come about like memories, at insignificant times – when I am brushing my teeth, when I am in the middle of reading a sentence, when I am waiting for the coffee to brew. 

The first was when I imagined having a small boy calling me his mother. It was in his eyes, the way he seemed to just know me. I saw his chubby little arms, the crook of each elbow. I had lifted him on to my hip, his head had fallen against my collar bone.

The second was a daughter. Around 5, maybe older. She was sitting on the counter top in my bathroom, she was wearing no shoes – I had noticed because she was throwing her legs about. I was leaned over the sink, my face inches from the mirror applying mascara. She watched like it was magic. 

The third was the same daughter, 5 years on. I was standing in the doorway to her room. Just looking. Just trying to trace back how I got here. I had aged a decade and yet never moved. I stood for hours at that door, letting it sink in; I am her mother. 

At times I feel as if these imaginary children are waiting for me some where. Asking me to come to them. Promising me lifetimes. I catch myself in those moments, suspended in time, before my heart gives one painful throb and the world floods back in; everything is as it was. And I remember that these children deserve better than me. 

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