Dear Son,
I met your daddy a long, long time ago. We were both just a few years older than you are now.
I see him on the bus. He’s got the same name as an astronaut. He has freckles like me.
We hang out in the same circles in middle school.
On our class trip to Washington D.C. we hold hands in the rain outside of the Smithsonian.
By high school, we are dating.
On the weekends, he takes me fishing and we take drives out to the State Park. We eat cheeseburgers before prom and talk about how we can’t wait to graduate.
We attend the same college, but have different majors.
It’s our Saturday ritual to eat lunch at the tavern on the corner, then walk through the cemetery and tell ghost stories.
Senior year, he promises his grandmother he will see the world. She passes shortly after our last visit.
At Trafalgar Square in London, he pulls her ring out of his pocket. I have to ask him if it means what I think it does, because he is too nervous to say it.
We get married a year out of college.
We both bend over backwards to kiss the Blarney Stone on our honeymoon, even though he’s afraid of heights.
When my job gets inside my head, he talks me through it.
When I unexpectedly quit, he tells me it will be ok.
One day, just a few years into marriage, he goes to an urgent care for a cold he can’t shake.
He is immediately sent for a biopsy. Our world flips upside down.
When we get the phone call that he’s in remission, we celebrate.
To this day, I make a special dinner for him on the anniversary.
Our first big trip after the “Big C” is out west.
We drive for miles and miles and at one point, we don’t see anyone else for over three hours.
I make a big career move.
He’s nervous, like he is for any change–but he tells me to go for it.
The first of our friends has a baby–a sweet little girl we go see in the hospital.
We both know that it’s time.
On Valentine’ Day we find out you’re a boy.
You are named on the spot after two of your daddy’s beloved family members.
My water breaks on the 4th of July. He drives me to the hospital in the rain.
You arrive over 21 hours later. The doctor shows your daddy how to cut your cord. He is shaking.
You’re here. You are very loved. You make me laugh like your daddy does; you remind me of him every day. You’re going to be three soon. And one day, we will tell you about all the years that led us to you.
