Dear Cherished Child,
There are moments when I sense your presence, though not in the traditional mystical sense. I don’t experience the fleeting scent of lavender or a gentle breeze that hints at your spirit. Those rare instances—like catching sight of a rainbow or a butterfly—make me wonder if it’s you or just my longing for you manifesting. I often question whether those we’ve lost truly return to us or if they allow us to grieve in solitude so we can find peace.
What I truly feel is your absence. It’s a constant reminder, sometimes gentle, sometimes sharp and overwhelming, that you are not here. You are not, and you will never be, present in this space with me and our family.
Life carries on, much like it did before your brief existence, except now I have two lively little girls to care for. I find myself busy, exhausted, and a mix of cranky and joyful. I don’t light a candle for you every night or weep for you daily anymore. Yet, your absence lingers nearby, like a silent shadow that can hum in my ear or flutter through my thoughts, or at times, shake me to my core when life takes a difficult turn.
These days, I mostly feel a sense of freedom, but I’m never entirely free from thoughts of you, which is okay. Your memory has transformed from a source of pain to a gentle nostalgia. You remain in my heart as the baby who forever stays small, never having the chance to grow.
There’s a distinct and profound sorrow in losing a baby who barely existed. It doesn’t take long for others to forget, and they often expect the same from you. With time, it’s easy to go for minutes, hours, or even days without remembering your absence. When that happens, I sometimes feel guilty. I strive to hold onto memories of you, fearing that moving forward means forgetting, which would mean I’m not the mother you deserve.
Yet, whether you come to mind frequently or infrequently, a part of me will never fully move on. The person I was before losing you still resides within me. While those around me may not recall your existence unless I bring it up, you are ever-present in my thoughts during significant dates—the day I learned of your conception, the day I realized you were gone, and your due date, which is forever etched in my memory.
Your absence hits me hardest during moments of joy with your sisters. Watching them grow fills me with happiness, yet it also reminds me of what could have been with you. I have witnessed their personalities flourish, held them close in their newborn days, and marveled at their transformation into beautiful little girls.
Now, I look forward to a new baby on the way. God willing, I will embrace that experience fully. But for you, I have none of those moments. I grieve not just for a lost baby but for the myriad memories that will never come to be—the softness of your weight in my arms, the wonder in your eyes as you explore the world, and the journey of watching you grow.
I often refer to you as the Baby Who Almost Was, but that phrase feels inadequate. There was no “almost.” You were real, you existed, and in my heart, my memories, and the space you left behind, you continue to live on. Your presence is felt even if it’s merely in the emptiness you left.
You are not forgotten. Though I may not always think of you, I can never truly forget. I refuse to, and I don’t wish to. While I cannot physically give you anything, I can promise you my enduring love and commitment to remember you always. You remain, and will forever be, my child.
With all my love,
Your Mama
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Summary
This heartfelt letter reflects on the enduring memory of a lost child, exploring the complexities of grief and the bittersweet nature of remembrance. The author navigates feelings of absence while celebrating the joy of living children and expresses an unwavering commitment to honor the memory of the child who was not meant to be.
Keyphrase
Baby Who Almost Was
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