AMACon 3: Oikos, a 30 day drabble challenge

Day 8: Therapy

My Dearest Love,

It's been 2 years, 4 months and a day since I lost you. There is not a day that passes that I don't remember you or think about what could have been.

I was already in a dark place when you came into my life.

After 5 years of hoping, endless fights, playing the blame game and two broken dreams, you appeared like a ray of light.

I dared not hope that this was it. But as time passed and you established your presence, I knew you would be special.

I first saw you on the screen and I immediately fell in love with you. I had miscarried twice already. The last just 6 months earlier. Seeing you in all your tiny glory, heart beat flickering in black and white, I felt relief. This was it. We were finally going to be blessed with a child.

You were but 12 weeks old when I introduced you to your dad. It was like a wall had been lifted between us. We smiled at each other, probably the first genuine one we've given each other in a long while. We reached for each other's hands and silently said a prayer of thanks. You had mended us.

Weeks passed, and we could not contain the excitement we felt. We talked about what to call you and who we wanted you to look like. Dad wanted you to have my eyes. I wanted you to carry a dimple like his. He even bought a tiny pair of pink socks delicately trimmed with lace. He was so sure you'd be a girl. Our little princess.

It was on your 17th week when our world was shaken up. A routine scan that turned everything around. It started off pleasantly, we were told there was a high probability you would be a girl. Your dad lightly touched my shoulder and we both grinned. Giddy in our happiness.

Then I felt something changed. I noticed my doctor's quiet demeanor. Her eyes betrayed the smile plastered on her face. I reached for your dad's hand. His grip was like a vice, as if he sensed what I was feeling.

I'm sorry. The words came tumbling out of my doctor's mouth. It looks like there's something wrong with your baby's heart. With those words, the joyful atmosphere slowly seeped out of the room until all that remained was a shadow of uncertainty. You dad's voice broke when he asked what was wrong. To this day the doctor's words echo in my mind. Your baby only has half a heart. I'm really sorry.

I felt like I was slapped. It was like winning the grand prize, only to be told there was a mistake and you had to give it back. There was a squeezing sensation in my chest, slowly building up. Cold washing over me. I was floating yet drowning at the same time. I could hear myself ask. Can it be fixed? Once she's out, they can fix it right? Right?

The doctor spoke quietly, her tone gentle, but there was nothing soothing about her words. The condition is called hypoplastic left heart. There's a series of operations that would need to be done but survival rate here in our country is low. And even if it is successful, she would eventually need a new heart in order to live.

We went home and in the silence of the house, your dad and I broke down. There was no screaming, no anguished cries. Your dad held me as I emptied my pain in the form of streams continuously flowing from my eyes. His cheek pressed against my forehead as he struggled to control his emotions until I felt his tears mingle with mine. My heart broke that day. And if I could have given you half of my broken heart to make yours whole, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

With nothing left to lose, we swore we wouldn't just stand idly by. We were going to do whatever it took to extend your stay with us. We finally had what we longed for and we weren't giving up without a fight.

But fate would not be defied. Six weeks later, we were dealt another blow. I barely felt you move the day before. I panicked and rushed to the doctor. The ultrasound confirmed my worst fear. You were gone. My heart already broken, shattered into a million pieces. I didn't even get to meet you. I never even got to say goodbye.

I refused to let you be a distant memory. I refused to allow myself to forget. I couldn't. I loved you too much. You were supposed to be our future. I couldn't leave you in the past.

All throughout, your dad has been my pillar of strength. His unwavering support is what has gotten me through every single day since you left. I can't thank him enough for all that he's done. He deserves more than I have given him. I finally realized I can't chain myself to my fears. I have to move forward.

I love you. But I love your dad too.

I know it's time. I'm finally ready to let go.

Maine folds the letter, slipping it in between the pages of her journal.

Her hand closes around a packet of pills. She says a silent prayer before tossing them in the trash.

She smiles, the corners of her mouth lifting up slightly. One day, those corners would reach her eyes again. One day.