I remember the day that they told me I was going to have twins. I almost cried but they were not tears of joy – no – tears of desperation. One more mouth to feed – how was I going to manage? I was still a teenage only just turned 18 years of age.
The pregnancy continued my belly grew and my feet swelled. I was so uncomfortable.
The labour was indeed labour but I was blessed with sensible and wise birth attendant. She told me when to push and when to pant. She gave my ashen faced mother little jobs to do , to keep her out of the way. And then, when it was all over, when the pain and the blood were washed away, then I cried. Then I cried tears of joy. My babies – perfect – from the soft spot on the head to their little toes. Janus and Jaen. My boys, my boys, my beautiful boys.
It seemed that in the early years and months motherhood bought nothing but tears for me. I cried out of sheer exhaustion. My mother was so helpful but she could not feed my babies. And boy did they feed. Voraciously. And they grew strong. I cried because I was happy, happy because I was blessed. I cried out of fear, how was I going to protect them from this awful system? I would rub the back of my neck, a reminder that my time here was limited, unless a miracle happened. And a miracle did happen, it did, but it divided my family forever.