A few months ago I watched that silly British movie about the guy who could go back in time. He was able to travel back to any point in his life and change things. But he discovered, after the birth of his first child, that there were limits; if he tried to travel back before his child was born, he discovered upon his return that his child was now different. The smallest detail resulted in another person entirely.
For the past year, I’ve told myself everyday I would do anything to have you here with me. If I could travel back in time I would do anything to convince myself we should have been induced; that you were in danger; that there was only one way to have you, living, in my life. For the past year, I’ve told myself this, but now I realize that’s changed.
My love, you have a sibling; a tiny peanut growing strong inside me. And my feelings are huge and complicated, and I love her as much as I ever loved you. And I think this is that moment for me, that moment that defines. Because I can’t have both of you.
I can’t have both of you.
It’s another layer to our goodbye.
I miss you.
I love you,
Write Your Grief: Baby Things
Letters to Adrian: Thu, May 2, 2019, 12:03 PM
Miranda’s Blog: 1 January 2019