Summary
A Mother's Vigil
Highlights
The Weight of Waiting
A pregnant woman moves through her home in a state of detachment and isolation, carrying the burden of an impending birth. She senses an encroaching darkness that feels both intimate and dangerous, lurking within her own living space while she waits for change.
The Bond with Dean
Despite her internal struggles, she shares a tender, protective relationship with her young son, Dean. Their days are filled with simple domestic activities like baking and playing, and he serves as a source of comfort, pressing his head against her stomach to listen to his unborn brother's presence.
Protection and Fear
The mother constantly reassures her four-year-old son that angels are watching over him to keep him safe.
She finds solace in his innocent love, yet she feels a profound vulnerability when faced with her husband's unpredictable behavior.
The recurring cycle of late-night tension and the fear of domestic conflict highlight her loneliness.
She expresses a desperate longing for her own sense of security, questioning why her children are protected while she feels abandoned by the same divine forces.
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Original text
Like a great balloon awaiting ballast she floats from room to room untethered, alone. Carries the hand of her eldest in a loose fist, the other child stewing inside her.
There’s something dark about this birth, this waiting. Something poisonous and lithe as love, something that lurks around the corners of her bedroom, lingers under the covers with warm dangerous hands.
At night, in bed, she presses a hand over her stomach, the other in the empty space beside her. She waits.
She knows that they love her, her boys.
She doesn’t know why.
She tells him, the boy outside of her, the freckled toddler with his toothy grin, his always reaching hands, angels are watching over you. She knows it’s true. Knows that his tiny body is safe, protected by wings and halos if not by God. He can lie safe while she goes downstairs, while she plants herself on the couch, swollen feet out in front of her, and cries and cries and cries, the noise of late night TV playing in the background.
Sometimes John comes home and sometimes they have to amuse themselves, she and Dean, play games, run around the house together, her swollen belly impeding her pace. They build forts, they bake. They talk for hours, Dean’s head leaning against the swell of her stomach, his eyes slipping closed to the sound of her heart. He’s warm, her little boy, in every way, loves his brother already, will sleep curled as close as he can to where the baby floats inside her. He will kiss her belly button and hold her hand and giggle when she kisses his nose in return.
Her little man. Her protector in jammies with feet, murmuring badly along to her Beatles LPs. Sleeping in bed with her when he has nightmares. Saying, constantly, I love you, Mommy. It’s okay.
It’s okay. I’ve got you.
He’s four.
She tells him, angels are watching over you, waiting by his crib for the noise of the door opening downstairs, the stink of whiskey, the start of a fight.
She musses the hair on Dean’s forehead. Trails her hand over his brow, in love with him so hard it almost leaves her breathless.
She says, you have angels, Dean. But one thought presses at her, selfish and ugly.
Where are mine?