I wish so fucking badly I believed in heaven so I could convince myself that I would meet you finally.
Instead, I carry your ghost with me. Every day. In everything. You have never left me, even though you are nowhere to be found.
I felt you before anything showed up on a test. Before a line. Before I could even say it out loud. I just knew you were there. I was never scared to be your mom—I was certain. You were mine. We planned you. We named you. I had never wanted anything more. You were my fucking miracle.
When the lines started fading, I thought I would actually die. I went to the doctor over and over—blood tests, questions, silence. Then, finally, nothing. They couldn’t find you. You were just… gone. And I truly thought I might go with you. I’ve lived through so many atrocities, but nothing has ever devastated me like losing you.
I think my body gave out from all the pain I was already in. I think it failed us both. And I’m so sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I wish I could’ve saved you. I wish I had been stronger. I’ll think of you every day until I don’t have thoughts anymore.
People don’t know what to say when a pregnancy disappears, so they say nothing. They pretend you never existed. But I know you were real. You are real. You are my child.
So when Ryan came, I froze. Six different tests said she was still there, and I still couldn’t trust it. Because I was still so fucking broken. Still grieving you. And now I look into her eyes and I imagine you. I imagine you being together. Because you are sisters. You are. I imagine what it would be like to have you both here. I miss the version of life so fucking bad that had you in it.
You were my first miracle. My first experience with a love so big it terrified me—in the best way. You made me believe in something beyond survival. And even though Ryan is here now, even though she saved me in ways I didn’t know I needed saving, you were the beginning.
I will never regret you. You are the most unbearable, beautiful love I’ve ever lost.
And I carry you. In my every cell. In my silence. In the mother I am. Always.