Annabelle's Mom
It’s like Annabelle’s growth replaced
mine—her limbs, her hair, her ability
to laugh and walk and talk became my
milestones, my own thwarted.
I used to envy the girls I’d graduated
with when I saw them, turning
from girls into women, their newfound
confidence and plans for the future.
They’d coo over Annabelle in her stroller
and, in a way, I knew they envied me,
like they thought I was the one who’d
crossed over into the adult world.
They thought becoming a mother gave me
an automatic ticket, one that let me
bypass all the growing up
they still had to do.
On the outside, I was doing adult things:
shopping for food, banking, arranging daycare,
but inside I was still seventeen, shy, unsure,
stepping timidly outside of myself.
It took me years to make my way
from secretary to agent, baby steps up
the ladder, learning to speak up
and walk like I really belonged.
Now, watching Annabelle pack for New York,
flinging her generic clothes into her bag,
I know it will all be different for her—
nothing will hold her back.
I want to grab her and hold her and tell her
how proud I am of who she is. I did a better job
than I expected. She is stepping out the way
I wish I could have. Part of me will
go with her.