Your eyes are closed tightly, like you’re having a bad dream. But you aren’t crying. So strange. I cried so much as a baby. At least, that’s what my mother always said. 

 

“Shhhh, shhh,” I whisper as I rock you back and forth. You spent so much of last night screaming that I don’t think you slept more than a few hours. And babies need at least 14 hours of sleep. At least, that’s what one “expert” with a popular blog said. 

 

Those hours, weeks, days I spent looking through every possible resource online and at bookstores. One said you should always burp your baby, while another said you should allow the baby’s gas to come up on its own. I heard from one source that babies should sleep in complete darkness, while another said babies need to sleep with soft sounds and light. 

 

All this conflicting information made me more anxious than I already was about having my first child. But my mother always said, “You’ll figure it out along the way.” It was the only piece of advice she ever gave that was worth anything. I won’t raise you like she raised me. I’ll love you much more. I’ll be there for you in not only the good times, but also the bad, just like a parent is supposed to be. 

 

I feel you shift in the blanket, moving your chubby little legs up and down. You open your eyes, and I get lost in them. Bright green, just like your mother’s. I’m so glad you got most of your looks from her, especially that cute pointed-up nose and pale freckles sprinkling the space just below your eyes. 

 

One day, I’ll tell you the story of how we met. It’s a beautiful story that ends in you. And maybe, it’ll inspire you to find your soulmate one day. 

 

I make a silly face at you, and you blink in confusion. I try a different face, this one coupled with a cooing sound, and the sides of your lips start curling. I blow air into my cheeks, widen my eyes, and cock my head to the side. This time, you smile, and my heart fills with warmth. 

 

“I love you so much,” I say.

 

You smile again. 

 

I hear the front door open downstairs, and your mom calls, “Danny?” 

 

“Oh, your mom’s home,” I say. 

 

We listen to her climb the stairs, and I hold you up to my face. She’ll find the image adorable when she comes into the nursery.

 

“Danny,” she calls again. 

 

The nursery door opens, and she lights up the doorway with her bright red hair and porcelain skin peeking out at her wrists and ankles. That hair was the first thing I noticed about your mom. It made me think of the last few moments of a sunset. 

 

She stands in silence, taking in the beauty of this moment. 

 

“Who are you?” she asks. “Please put down my baby.”

​

Tom Maglaqui-Ride is a Filipino American writer from South Carolina. He's had fiction published in The Fiction Pool and a nonfiction piece about his mental health journey as an Asian-American published through the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). Tom is currently working on his first full length novel. https://www.instagram.com/tommaglaquiridewriter?igsh=c2hhZDJxemY3YjMz