I don’t know how to feel.

I’ve been staring at them—my child—for what feels like an eternity, but my mind is still caught in some kind of fog. It’s like my body doesn’t know whether to shut down or run, like my brain refuses to let me process what’s in front of me.

They look like me.

That’s the first thing I noticed. The shape of their eyes, the way their hair sticks up in places, the way they shift awkwardly under my gaze like they’re not sure if they should be here either. And maybe that’s the part that scares me the most.

Because I didn’t choose this.

I didn’t want this.

And yet, here they are. A kid. A living, breathing person who had no say in how they came into this world, just like I didn’t have a say in what happened to me. And now? Now I’m supposed to just… decide how to feel about them? About this? Like it’s something I can just flip a switch on?

I wish I could say I feel love, or anger, or… anything clear-cut. But all I have is this tangled mess of emotions that won’t sort themselves out. Guilt. Disgust. Fear. Responsibility. None of it makes sense, but it all weighs on me at once.

They didn’t ask for this any more than I did.

I swallow hard, realizing I haven’t said a word. I should say something. But what? What do you say to a child you never wanted, never expected, but still feel like you can’t turn your back on?

“…Hey.”

It’s weak. Empty. But it’s all I can manage. Because no matter how much I try to tell myself I should walk away, I know I won’t.

I just don’t know if I can be what they need.