Dear God,

You messed up.

This isn't what we talked about. This isn't what it was supposed to be.

I was supposed to have a loving husband who doted on me. He was supposed to be loyal, dedicated, and we should have been best friends. He was supposed to care as much about my needs as I care about his. I thought he would help more. I thought he would share affection more. You never said he would be absent, married to his job and his friends and his sports television. You never mentioned he might take me for granted and always expect just a little more than I'm able to give.

In every relationship there is a lover and a beloved, right? So how come I have to be both?

But that's not everything; you botched my whole family.

I was supposed to give birth to a baby, not have one yanked out of me at the very last second. Giving birth is the closest a woman can ever come to helping you out with a miracle. I don't know who said that, but it fits.

I was robbed.

I didn't have the pain, only the terror. I didn't have an active role. I never got to push. Everything that happened someone did for me; the doctors decided to induce, and the doctor broke my water. Then the doctors decided it was time to slice and dice. I didn't see my daughter until the next day, and by that point she was ruined for me.

And it was your fault.

She didn't look like the baby in my dreams. She didn't look like my baby at all. My baby was supposed to have dark eyes and a head full of thick, dark hair. She was supposed to be dark-skinned, like me, so she wouldn't have his freckles. She wasn't supposed to have the red marks on her eyes, between her eyes, and on her nose. She wasn't supposed to be flawed, but she is. She can't help it.

She was supposed to be my baby, and we were supposed to bond through breastfeeding, but you dropped the ball on that one, too. Why did it have to take two weeks of tearful frustration before anyone realized I didn't have any milk? I was supposed to have milk; I have breasts that were supposed to swell with nourishment for my baby, not lay limp and deflated.

I was robbed again.

I was broken from the surgery and broken from the lack of lactation, and I'll never be a whole woman again. I'm damaged goods. Sure, I look okay on the outside, but the mechanism's faulty. The innards are busted, like an old recliner. Looks promising until you need it to serve its purpose.

But you didn't stop there. You must've gotten someone else's order, because my absent husband was supposed to change. He was supposed to help with the feedings and the changings. He was supposed to be a devoted father who loved his child with all he was. We were supposed to be in this together.

But he didn't change and it's still just me. It was just me for the 20 weeks I threw up and lost weight, and it was me with the tired back and aching feet. It was me who gained the weight back, and who painted the baby's room, and who picked out all of the furniture. I went to the showers, and I unwrapped the presents, and I picked out the name. I'll be sending the thank you notes, just like I change all the diapers and wash all the bottles and time all the feedings. I give all the baths. I wash all the dishes. I cook all the meals and fold all the laundry. All by myself, because you messed up.

I was supposed to be a loving mother. I was supposed to be thrilled at the prospect of my child. When I wasn't, I thought maybe I'd like her better when she got here.

Fat chance.

I'm not the mother I dreamed of being. I'm not in love with my baby. Sure, I'm pretty fond of her, but not like I would be if I'd pushed her out of my body. I went to sleep and woke up and there she was, clean and bundled and bottle-fed.

Why didn't you make me better? Why did you have to make me flawed and broken, and why did you let me marry him? Why did you give me this baby who could easily belong to someone else, for all the attachment I feel for her?

You messed up, God. None of this is like we planned. None of this is how it was supposed to be. But I'm afraid to ask you to fix it.