I counted 26. No, 27. Wait, did that one fly away?

Several years ago, on a cold winter day, I sat on the stone steps of the American Museum of Natural History counting pigeons like it was the most important task in the world. Me. A grown woman with a master’s degree and a job at a major tech company. Mother to an adorable baby girl.

A mother.

The word still felt foreign in my mouth six months after giving birth. Mother. Mom. Mommy. They told me it would feel natural. That I would slip into it like a favorite hoodie, worn and familiar.

That I would fall in love instantly.

They lied.

Weeks before, I had stood on a subway platform wondering what it would take for someone to jump. Not me. Not exactly. But I wondered. And the wondering didn’t feel dramatic or urgent — it felt casual. Like choosing between iced or hot coffee. That’s what terrified me later, as I watched pigeon number 28 land beside the others. Not that I had the thought, but how ordinary it felt.

My hands grew numb from the cold as I popped another candied cashew from my pocket. One of those delicious, sugarcoated nuts you get from vendors on a Manhattan streetcorner. I had bought them near Rockefeller Center and clutched the warm paper bag in my palm as I made my way through Central Park to the museum, the heat fading with each step.

They were cold now as I sat on the steps. I should have gone home. My baby was there, laughing, starting to crawl.