Maybe there’s some deeper cause that created Jocelyn Anderson, but I know for certain that I am not going to be the mother she is. My mother’s never spoken of her own childhood, her parents died before I was born, and I never knew them. Her past is a closed book, and I only know the life she put me through.

I stare down at my stomach, a swelling sensation in my chest and an ache in my throat as I trail my fingertips across the flat expanse. I will be a mother who gives a shit, a ...