Member-only story
The Making of an Invisible Child
Includes practical advice for new parents
Before I became a flawed adult, I was an invisible child.
Before that, I was just a thought under my parents’ eyelids.
My mother closed her eyes one cold April night and imagined a baby with smooth skin and big dark eyes. A few months later, she got one. It was almost like a fairytale.
My father closed his eyes and wished for a little girl who would adore him. And he got one. But he didn’t know babies could cry so loud. “I felt like throwing you out the window,” he often laughed. I laughed, too, but only because it was safer than showing how I really felt about him throwing little me out the window.
Dad carried me on his shoulders. He played with me and made me pancakes. Until he realized children have a will of their own. Until I refused to spend New Year’s Eve in his mother’s house. “I’m scared of wallpaper in Grandma’s house,” I whispered. “It’s so dark.” Then he decided it was enough.
Dad closed his eyes and imagined how great it would be to have a child who would never say “No” and whose maintenance wouldn’t require such strenuous efforts. If he had that kind of child, he would be spared from unnecessary listening to a child’s silly ramblings. He wouldn’t have to bend over backwards to…
