“Who Else Has a Son Like Mine?” A Mother Searches for Other Parents Who Lack Medical Answers
How many days had we spent asking the same questions of God or doctors? How long had we wrestled with conditions that didn’t yet exist?
Sometimes when I’m reading to my seven-year-old daughter, she’ll suck in a big breath, seal her lips, and begin moving her right hand, fixed in a Y-shape, back and forth between us. Her hazel eyes will grow; her chest will puff out. It would be torture to make her wait, so I usually stop to acknowledge the sign her first-grade teacher taught her.
Did you really lead a group of slaves to freedom by reading the stars, or are you just a Black person who likes the sky?
Me too, me too. I have a connection.
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Not knowing happens to all mothers, and to all of us—if we are breathing, we are without escape from things we can’t know.
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