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I must be missing a gene or something. I thought it was automatic. I mean, the kids literally come out of you, you know? They’re a part of you.

Yet I don’t love them. How is that possible?

When I first saw Jenny, when they put her in my arms, I cried. She was deformed from her trip through the canal. She looked terrible and I felt bad, really bad for her. But I didn’t love her. And even though things have shifted back into place and she’s become a lovely young woman, I still don’t love her.

Then there’s Tim. I thought, maybe it’s the shock of having a first child, it numbed me and if I just have a second, the love would flow. Tim was a handsome devil from the start. Blue eyes, blond hair and a square jaw—yes, a square jaw from day one. The nurses all had a crush on him and I even thought he was okay. I like him, which is something, but I’ve never loved him.

It’s not that I don’t know how to love. I’ve been in love with my husband Alan for the 22 years we’ve been together. He’s a dear and he’s always been wonderful with the children. He took Jenny to her baseball practice and Tim to his ballet (we’re a gender-neutral family) and all three of them remain close to this day. Did I mention, he’s a hunk? That’s where Tim gets his looks, square jaw and all.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I never beat my children. I certainly don’t hate them. Nor did I ever neglect them. I took good care of Jenny and Tim, made sure they were safe and clean and had all that they needed. I had that uncomfortable conversation with Jenny about her body, and helped Tim learn the mechanics of being a gentleman. (He was just a little shy.) Externally, I was an attentive, thoughtful loving mom. Jenny and Tim both adore their mom. I wish I could return the favor but I never knew how. So, I lied to express affection. I just never felt it.

Sorry, kids. I tried.