I think maybe this isn’t really a confession, not in the big, scandalous way people mean. I don't know if this counts. But I used to, well, I’d lie awake next to her crib, for hours, just watching her chest rise and fall. Any little congestion, any tiny sigh, I'd immediately diagnose it in my head as some obscure respiratory failure, like infantile pulmonary interstitial emphysema or something equally dire I’d looked up at 3 AM. I mean, I don't even—it was all so much, the fear, the sheer terror of it. And I was supposed to be sketching, you know? Paying the bills. But all I could do was stare at this impossibly small person, holding my breath until she took another. Ridiculous, right? I was always a bit dramatic, even then.