I don't remember those first three days of my life, not really. People always say babies don't remember anything that early, and maybe that's true. But sometimes I wonder if bodies remember what minds can't—warm hands, soft voices, the difference between presence and absence.
Mama always said I came into this world fast and loud, like I already knew there was something I needed to fight for. She says she held me tight against her chest and whispered, "I got you. I promise." I imagine her sitting in that hospital bed, hair a mess, eyes tired but shining anyway, like she was seeing a miracle she never expected.
There were people around—family, friends, some faces I would grow up knowing, and others who would fade out of our lives before I could form words. They came to see me before he did.
My father.
He wasn't there when I was born. He had work that day, and that was more important. Or at least, that's how Mama tells it. I don't think she says it to be cruel. It's just the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts without anybody meaning it to.
Mama says that when she first held me, she didn't know for sure if I belonged to him. There had been questions, whispers, wondering. I think she carried that weight silently—hoping, fearing, trying to prepare for whatever came next. But when they finally knew I was his… she said she felt relief, confusion, and something like disappointment all twisted together.
Three days passed before he finally came to the hospital to meet me.
When Mama tells the story, she says she tried not to be angry. She wanted to be hopeful. But hope feels fragile when you're holding a newborn in your arms and the father hasn't shown up yet.
I imagine myself lying in that little plastic hospital bassinet, wrapped up tight, waiting—because babies do a lot of waiting without knowing they're doing it.
When my father came to see me it was after I was already home from the hospital. Three days I was born onto this earth, amd three days dad waited to meet me for the very first time. Mama said he looked at me like he didn't know what to do with something so small and breakable. He did not know how to feel about a daughter. Two boys, my brothers, we're his first children. Two amazing sons, for an amazing dad. Here I am just another child to care for. Just another burden for him to carry. Just another thing tying him to my mother.
I was here.
And ready or not, he was my father.
After we left the hospital, Mama didn't take me straight home. The trailer they lived in then was rundown, cold at night, too loud when the wind hit it just right. She didn't feel good about bringing a newborn into a place that unfit, she took me somewhere safer, somewhere you could breathe without tasting dust and mold.
She kept me close during those early days, even when she was exhausted, even when she was scared. Mama always says she was proud from the first moment she saw me.
After a little while, Mama left to find us a real home. Something stable. Something she could look at and feel proud of. She found a government apartment in a small town—not much, but better than what she had. We lived there for four or five months. Hard months. Tight months. But months where she slowly built a life for me, piece by piece, even if I wouldn't understand any of it until much later.
Those were the first steps of our story—of my story.
A father who showed up late.
A mother who didn't stop trying.
A life that started with uncertainty but grew with love that wasn't always glamorous, but it was steady.
And even then, even wrapped up in blankets and barely learning to breathe on my own…
I was already watching.
Already learning.
Already being shaped by the choices she made.
Even if I didn't know it yet.