Momma

You were born perfect. Our second boy, just a tad on the smaller side. Your nose turned up just the right amount, your eyes looking up at the pictures on the ceiling, your eyes stolen from your daddy. We stared at you for hours, all smiles and tears. During those first few days I didn’t care at all that you were different.

Your brother came to meet you, he held you, and cooed at you, and you wouldn’t stop pulling at his ear. He asked why you looked funny, and we said you were special. He held my hand as he snuggled up to us in the hospital bed. A happy little foursome, a perfect little family.

I had read all the books during my pregnancy; we had found out about two months before you were born that you might have this disorder. That you wouldn’t act normal, your face might be different, you might not sleep, or listen, or allow my touch. I didn’t leave my bed for days. I didn’t leave until your brother had school, and your dad had work, and I needed to be a mom even though I felt like I was dying. He asked if the baby was broken, and I didn’t know what to say.

When you came home with us it all got harder then at the hospital. You wouldn’t let me hold you, you wouldn’t lie in your crib, you wouldn’t catch my eye. You would never smile. It felt like you didn’t see me as your mom. And so, I cried all the time. I retreated to my bed where you would scream beside me. You weren’t happy with us, it seemed; and that was tearing us apart. I’d be lying if I said it was months before the thought occurred to me: that I really couldn’t do it. It only took weeks. But it was nearly a year when I told your dad, and he agreed, this wasn't working. Your brother was turning five, and he wasn’t a happy little guy anymore. Me and dad were always sad, and it wore off on him. We fought more, we didn’t go out, we didn’t want to take you anywhere because you were always upset. It took a few months to find a family, with training and with money, that could pay for medicine and have the time to help you grow. I had felt like I couldn’t make you happy, and I wanted you to have a home that could. I did it honestly because I felt it was best, for us and for you, I did it because I wanted my husband to love me again, and for at least one of my children to smile when he saw me coming.

I don’t know if it was right. I don’t know if I regret it. I don’t know if I would do a single thing differently if I had you today. But I’m sorry. My heart never healed losing you, and I live feeling guilty that I hurt you. I did the best I could, and I hope you can forgive me.

I know today you turn eighteen. Me and your dad celebrate and hold each other every year. I wasn’t allowed to reach out, and still now I hesitate. I hesitate to interject myself into a life, a world, where you're at peace without me. But I wanted you to know I’m here, and I still think of you, and I love you with everything I am. I sent some old photos, some old things of yours in this box. Remember us, if you’d like, get to know us a little bit. If you ever do miss us, write back, please. And my boy, happy birthday.

With love,

Momma

A boy looked below the note to find a box, wrapped in brown paper, left neatly on the door mat at his parent's home. He found it so strange at first, so curious, so distrustful. He wasn’t sure yet, if he wanted to look inside.