I am writing to you from America, where I have just found out I am pregnant with my second child. My first child, who would have been fourteen weeks old when you were born, died before I could give birth to him. I miss him. I miss you. I miss that I never got to know you, and you are already turning one.
Your mother and I have been friends for years. She helped me through breakups. She was a good friend. When I found out we were pregnant at the same time, I was ecstatic. I loved having someone to share this journey. I loved the thought of my child being friends with you.
Things got hard after Adrian’s death. Your mother and I became less close. I don’t blame her, exactly. Sometimes life is just really hard. Sometimes people, through no fault of their own, just don’t understand.
You are turning one next week, and I feel jealous. You are turning one, and my son won’t be here to send you a sloppy scribbled birthday card. You are turning one, and I am aching, and I realize that I miss your mother. I miss her, but I’m still not ready to be friends. Sometimes people, no matter how they try, just aren’t capable. But goodness — the desire is there.
Please know that I’m thinking of you, and one day I hope to meet you. Because I love you. Because you’re alive. Because I don’t plan to be broken forever. At some point, I’ll be ready, and the light will slip in.
Happy birthday, dear Grace. And many, many more
* Names have been changed to protect privacy.