381. The air so cold, he coughed as soon as he went outside. I had wrapped him up well, little hat and mittens on a string, but still fretted that I might not have protected him well enough; that he may become ill through an error of mine. Swollen glands, sore throat, headache, slight fever--all some kind of mistake.

We set off, I leaned heavily on the pushchair, hoping I wouldn't slip on the ice. The scent of hot sugar and frying dough drifted across the parking lot in the autumn chill and then settled itself around us like a mother's hug. I missed that hug and someone to tell me that I was doing okay as a mother. I often think about how she must have felt when I was first born, did she panic about getting it wrong too? Did her mother give her the reassurance that I lack so badly?

As I walked a thought returned to me over and over: The parents fretted over the coughing baby. Thirty years later, the daughter lay in bed worrying about her parents' persistent cough. Would my son have the same thoughts in another thirty years?