Nothing feels quite like holding a child that isn’t yours… and somehow, still feeling like they are.

Her mother has already done everything – bathed her, fed her, dressed her in the softest clothes, carefully choosing what fits her best.

And then there’s me… waiting eagerly for my turn.
To carry her.
To play with her.
To steal a few moments that feel like they belong to me.

When she is with me, it feels like I can do it better.
Funny, right?

Just because I changed her diaper once… or fed her a few times… suddenly, in my mind, I become the better caregiver.

She laughs with me, plays until she’s tired, and then falls asleep in my arms.
And in those quiet moments, it feels real.
Like something I own.
Like something that is mine.

But then… it’s time to go.

And that’s where the feelings begin to split.
One part of me feels relieved—finally, I can rest. I’ve done my part.

But the other part… the quieter, deeper part… doesn’t want to let go.
Because I want more time.
More days.
More moments that feel like they belong to me.

And then reality settles in.

She leaves my arms… because she was never mine.