Dear Emma,
I want to start with an apology. I wish I could articulate it better, more profoundly, or in a way that doesn’t feel so repetitive. I find myself saying “I’m sorry” daily, whether it’s for little things—like when you stumble at the park or I forget to bring your favorite snack—or for the larger weight of our situation. Beneath each of those casual apologies is a truth I struggle to convey: I’m sorry for the limitations of our family. I’m sorry it’s just the two of us navigating this chapter of life.
You deserve more than this, my love. You should have the typical family experience that others seem to have—two parents, and a sibling or two. Instead, we find ourselves teetering on a fragile balance, like a stool with only two legs. It’s unnerving, and I wish it could be different.
I’ve been on a journey myself, one that is slowly shifting from grief to acceptance. The sting of loss is fading, replaced by the promise of new beginnings. I’m starting to feel lighter, but I know you will carry certain losses with you throughout your life. You will always experience the absence of the other half of your family, and that’s a reality I can’t change. No matter how hard I rationalize our situation, it’s undeniable that you bear the brunt of this change. That thought brings me to tears, and I can never express enough how deeply I regret being part of that loss.
Just a few weeks ago, as we strolled to the park hand in hand, you innocently asked about your brothers and sisters. In that moment, tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt a lump form in my throat. How do I explain to you that, at least for now, you won’t have siblings? It’s a conversation I dread, but I know it’s one I must have. I’m learning to let go of my own dreams for our family, and I’ll have to help you navigate these unfulfilled hopes as well.
As you grow and become more aware, I will need to find the right words to answer your questions about siblings, why we have two homes, and why we live in different places. I want to do this without feeling overwhelmed by the weight of unexplainable loss.
But through it all, you shine so brightly, Emma. Your laughter and kindness light up my world. You are smart and compassionate, and it warms my heart to see you form connections with others so quickly. I have every confidence that you will thrive. You are strong, resilient, and surrounded by love—this I know for sure. You’re not alone in this experience; many of your friends have parents who aren’t together, too.
While this situation isn’t unique, it was never how I envisioned our family story would unfold. I never anticipated that the first day I held you in my arms would lead us here. When you curl up next to me at night or when it’s time for you to leave, I feel that ache in my heart, knowing you don’t fully grasp why things are the way they are. I wish I could take away your confusion and pain, but I can only keep saying, “I’m sorry,” even when those words seem inadequate.
I hope that as we move forward, we can build something strong, even if we are apart. I want our family to feel whole on its own terms, even if it doesn’t look like what’s considered traditional. I hope you never see us as less than enough. I want us to rise above this situation, to become something more than just the sum of our parts.
I dream of a day when I won’t feel the need to apologize for our circumstances. I long for the day when goodbyes become easier, where this new normal feels comfortable, and not like a patchwork family. I want you to experience the joy of having siblings, whether they come from your parents or from the bonds you form with friends and family.
You are okay, my little star. As I rub your back during those restless nights, I remind myself and you, “You’re okay.” I let that mantra wash over us, hoping it brings you comfort.
With all my love,
Your Mom
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