This is an amazing story by Timothy Dalrymple. Beautiful stuff. I was going to put it on The Reader but it’s just too good. It’s called “Why We Have Children:”
I hate the memory of it. I hate it.
I hate how stiff my daughter’s body felt in my arms that night. I hate how vacant and soulless her face had become, unmoving save for the veined whites of her eyes as the irises fluttered up under the skull.
It happened on a cold October evening, when an early snowfall still covered the streets north of Boston. We parked beside our friends’ home, and I noticed the flush of red in my daughter’s cheeks. I checked her brow—it was hot. I should have done something more, but I thought perhaps she had simply over-heated in her coat and car seat. So I took her inside and watched as she tried to play. On most days our daughter, thirteen months old, was an overflowing wellspring of energy and laughter and fleet-footed enthusiasm. On this day, something seemed off.