When I was under the knife, receiving the incisions that would cause considerable scarring, I was receiving new scars. My daughter was just two years old, and Mommy was unavailable so she turned to Daddy. Always Daddy.

Even now, three years later, she prefers him. Trusts him over me to be there, to care for her, to love her more or better than I will.

I try not to take it personally, but it hurts. Wounds were excised but so was our bond. I reach for her and she often does not reach back. "I want Daddy," she says, tears streaming down her face. I want to stay, connect, reforge the path now blocked by thick tissue, but when Daddy arrives she is content and my presence feels intrusive

Like my physical scars, this could not have been avoided. Just as she found her legs and her voice, I disappeared. My body broke down and reassembly was necessary. Recovery took months. We were each climbing our own mountains, working parallel, but not side-by-side.

I remember crying for her after my first surgery. She was three months old and I woke from anesthesia to my own voice calling her name. Her body was held close to me. I felt her heartbeat, her sweet warmth and slipped back out of consciousness.

image from pixabay.com

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