Daughter

I watched my daughter grow and age while I seemed to stand stagnant in time, frozen in memories I had of myself before she was born. This girl, who took up so much of my time, somehow meant nothing to me. In fact, I barely remember my pregnancy.

Having all the instincts of a mother, I wondered why I felt none of the attachment. Back then, I would I look at her, not realising she had no heart to beat and no breath to lose. She was a lovable child up until I realised she wasn’t a child all.

A changeling. That’s what I got from the internet after I’d stricken off the symptoms of any psychological disorder. But even that didn’t fit. There was something off about her… and about me too, because she really was my daughter. Just not my flesh and blood.