If I Could Be the Father

If I could be the father,

I’d have kids.

I’d pass on my laugh,

my stubbornness,

and my love for slow mornings.

I’d love them.

Fiercely.

But from a distance society has already written into the script.

I don’t want to be a mother.

Not because I can’t.

But because to mother…

is to burn.

To mother is to gamble my physical health,

to bleed and break,

to shift bones and tear skin

for a world that might never feel safe again.

To mother is to offer my body,

then my time,

then my career,

then my joy,

then my sleep,

then my peace,

then my silence

only to be called strong as if I asked for that title.

If I could be the father,

I wouldn’t be expected to disappear into motherhood.

I could still chase my dreams without guilt.

I could still go to the gym.

Still create art.

Still be me.

I wouldn’t have to explain why I’m tired.

No one would ask what I cooked for dinner.

No one would look at me strange for needing space.

They’d call me involved just for showing up.

A hero for being present.

But as a mother?

Presence is assumed.

Silence is demanded.

And exhaustion? Romanticized.

I don’t want to carry children into a world

where the burden sits unevenly in my lap.

Where my softness becomes duty.

Where my love is measured in how much of myself I’m willing to lose.

I don’t want to live in fear

every time they leave the house.

I don’t want my peace tied to a child’s survival.

I don’t want my identity rewritten in diapers and doctor’s appointments.

Not like this. Not entirely.

Call me selfish.

I’ll wear it like perfume.

Because I want my own time.

My own space.

My own money.

My own mind.

I want to be able to say “no” to motherhood

and still be seen as whole.

If I could be the father,

I’d have kids.

But I’m not.

And I won’t.

And I don’t owe anyone

a softer version of that truth.