The old floors creaked beneath my hesitant weight, trying to ensure the sounds remained minimal. In my arms, I held tightly to the malleable child, tiny hands clutching my shirt collar as if to ensure its security. But I would never let go, and I would do everything in my power to keep her safe.
“It’s alright,” I tried to soothe as a soft whine of protest tried to dissuade me from placing her in the crib. “I’m right here.”
It was the night before Christmas and the apartment was eerily silent. Yet, I could hear all the inhales and exhales, the gentle snores, and the vague noises that my tiny daughter allowed to alert me to her presence. She was the best gift I could ask for, and I knew that despite our rocky start together, I would never dream of parting ways.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, reaching out through the bars for an infinitesimal hand that gripped tightly to my finger. Because she didn’t want to let go either, which meant I needed to do my best for her. “Maybe I’ll get a raise,” I quipped to the quiet room.
It would be a step in the right direction, affording us a better place to live and more of the finer luxuries in life, like that amazing stroller I saw in the park earlier or one of those cribs that could eventually change into a toddler-sized bed. “Would you like that?” I asked my daughter.
I couldn’t wait for her to speak for the first time. I’d imagine that after years of learning the various phonetics and semantics, my daughter and I could have fascinating conversations together. On nights where it was warm enough to sit out under the stars, we could talk about whatever we wanted.
“One day,” I assured the sleeping bundle, checking the baby monitor on the nightstand once more before leaving my daughter to sleep on a very peaceful Christmas Eve.
