My stomach has always been three year old Wren’s comfort. He puts his hand there when he needs my attention. After my father died something changed. Wren has begun to call my stomach his ‘baby’ and he talks about looking after it as if it were a separate part of me. (There is no baby there.) Instead of me caring for him, he is caring for this part of me.
He is lying next to me at his bedtime. He has his hand on my stomach, his 'baby'. He taps it repeatedly.
Wren: I am feeding my baby enimigy.
Me: What is enimigy?
Wren, thinking for a moment: Heart. I am feeding it heart.
Me: Oh. Why does it need heart?
Wren, looking off into the distance: You need much heart.
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