I hate that I can only live one life. I know it should be enough, but it’s hard to let go of the things you once expected you’d do. Like watch your daughter sitting on your man’s shoulders. Saw this the other day on campus. He’s holding her up so she can watch the orchestra rehearsing.
Someone came and closed the door while I was watching. Prophetic, perhaps. I guess it's always easy to imagine a perfect life inside the lit up windows. In reality I'd probably have ended up single parenting while the kids' father put their education up his arm.
I guess I’m thinking about this a lot because my brother’s about to have his second kid. I was meant to be the one who had kids. Life had other plans.
I guess as long as I never get a pet, nobody can mock me for my failure to breed. I’m more terrified than anything of becoming one of those sad career women who’s emotionally obsessed with their dogs / cats / iguana – even if there are so many of them now that I’d never struggle to meet people like myself.