[inspired by the story of an Argentinian man reunited with his son after 30 years apart - from the POV of the kidnapped mother]

There are so many things that I want to say. Thinking on vulnerability, my mind crunches down and pushes against my temples--leaving a space and building a pain. It won't think anymore. I won't think anymore. Vulnerable is weak. Have I written that before? The girl is grinding her teeth. I want to hit her so hard, until I can't tell the difference between her tears and my own. But I also want her to touch me, to lay her hand on me and not know what I am thinking when our heartbeats match heartbeats and our tears touch in a different way. But this is weakness. Have I said that before? I have sinned--unlike these men have sinned--but I have sinned nonetheless. I have felt danger in the pit of my stomach and instead of turning away, I have run toward it. Feeding another life can either feel parasitic or celestial. And I felt neither. I only felt myself, and what I believed. Now I sit here--griding teeth, breaking water, swelling anger--and I realize: I am not a vessel and this is not a temple, and my body cannot keep you safe.