When you were small and fragile, but still unblemished, before the surgeons had begun their work that would save your life but leave you scarred, your father sat beside your tiny hospital crib, to talk to you alone.
On that night, the last night we knew for sure we would have you, the bravest man I know told you this:
That we loved you, and we wanted you to fight as hard as you could. But if it was too hard, if it hurt too much, it was ok to let go. We would understand.
And while I understood and admired your father’s words, I could say no such thing. Continue reading