In your first hours of life, as your cells divided in silent mystery, I thought of you. I wondered if you were ok. After all, it’s not often that babies are away from their mothers in that moment of creation. Except for the other embryos around you, you were all alone, in a strange dish, in a strange lab, in an entirely new world. Yet on you went, growing like you didn’t have a single care.
I want to tell you that I think this makes you very brave.
Now that you’re finally here with me, I wonder if you will stay. From that deep place of knowing that goes beyond all anxiety and uncertainty, I believe that you will. But there are no guarantees. All we ever have, with anyone, is this minute. And this minute you are here with me, and I am here with you.
So I will love you. I will shout it from the rooftops, even if two seconds later I fall off the roof. Because that’s just it. To love someone or something without being guaranteed a certain future is brave. It’s maybe the bravest thing a person can do. And I want to be brave for you, just like you were brave for me.