My baby Franny passed away last month. She had been losing weight but showed no signs of pain. She was slower and quieter, but she still came down every night at 8 pm to yell at me and eat bites of my dinner beside me. Lately, she was turning up her nose at nothing—pizza, bread, pasta, whatever. As long as I was eating it, she wanted it. Then we would cuddle. No one could cuddle like Fran.
For the last half-year or so, she stole her time with me at night, knowing that Oliver took every ounce of my attention and energy in the day. She knew there was less of me for her, and she accepted this without protest. This made me love her even more than I had before. She asked only that I adore her desperately for a little while at the end of each day. I did so happily and every bit as desperately as she might have hoped for.
I found solace burying my face in Franny’s fur at the end of long days with Oliver, days that—as any mother of a new baby knows—are not only joyful but exhausting. With her, I became a little more just me again, me as me and not as mother too, me as nerves and heart and thoughts and dreams. All these I would pour into her little body, and she received them gratefully.
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