Parenting
I met Alex back in college through mutual friends, and while we started as casual acquaintances, our bond deepened over time. We didn’t rush into romance; instead, we grew together, eventually finding ourselves at our friends’ wedding years later, where our love blossomed—swiftly and effortlessly, even from opposite sides of the globe.
Our love story is charming and heartfelt, filled with adventures, letters, and countless hours of conversation. For our second date, he whisked me away to Paris, where he confessed his love in the kitchen of his tiny apartment, right next to the trash can, simply unable to hold back any longer. He planned delightful excursions to theaters and restaurants that he knew I would adore. He loved me fully, yet I knew I was not his greatest love.
That honor belonged to our daughter.
It was during the ultrasound appointment at 20 weeks pregnant with our second child when everything shifted. We were filled with anticipation, eager to glimpse the tiny being growing inside me. We opted not to find out the sex, wanting to savor each moment. Afterward, I was set to pick up our son from my parents’ house, while Alex planned to return to work just a few blocks away.
But that day, he didn’t go back to work.
We received devastating news. Her heart was beyond repair, and we faced heart-wrenching decisions.
“Whatever happens, we need to communicate our thoughts openly. Every single thought,” he said that evening as we sat together, shattered on the couch. How did he understand exactly what we needed? How did he instinctively know how to love our daughter?
As we navigated our choices, our daughter, Lily, was born. We anticipated her passing but were surprised when she arrived crying and somewhat pink, placed directly in Alex’s arms. In that moment, he fell head over heels for her—more than he ever could for me in our lifetime. I recognized that look on his face immediately.
He held her first, then gently passed her to me, demonstrating a love that was already strong enough to let her go. (I found it hard to let her go at all.)
She defied the odds. She grew, nursed, laughed, and lived—despite her condition. While Alex held her as often as he could, he also understood my need to keep her close. He loved her with open arms when I couldn’t bear to let go. This made her prefer my embrace, and he never complained.
The two of them enjoyed walks in the stroller and drives around the neighborhood. When I struggled to get her to nap, he would take her out, glancing at her sleepy eyes beneath the stroller canopy as they circled through parks and neighborhoods. On early weekend mornings, he would drive her to view the mountains, ensuring she experienced those breathtaking sights, even though she never hiked or camped like other children. This was their special time. He never complained.
Eventually, Alex had to return to work, and from then on, he loved her from a distance, aware that she could slip away at any moment. He never complained.
We lost her.
I was the last to hold Lily. He rushed from work, only to find her fading in the emergency room. He never complained. He celebrated her life, encouraged me to grieve however I needed, and spent months reading our eulogy in his office with the door closed. He never complained.
I know he longed to hold Lily more. His arms ached for her presence, and for a long time, I believed that ache stemmed from how rarely she was in them. Months after her passing, I told him I had few regrets, but I wished she had allowed him to hold her more.
He simply replied, “She was where she needed to be.”
Lily will forever be his greatest love.