Four weeks and four days.
That's the difference between being your mom and not. That's the difference between my broken heart and this one.
Is it weird that I'm nervous to write to you? As if writing to you means I believe you're safe. That you're going to stay safe. And as hard as I'm trying to keep you safe, Little Bug, right now there is nothing I can do to stop something bad from happening to you. And that is the scariest thing I have ever experienced in my life.
I'm hanging on every little sign you send me. A stomach ache. Boobs that ache every once in a while. Heartburn. Lines on pregnancy tests that I can't seem to stop buying. I keep praying to St. Anthony that you'll take from me whatever it is you need. Do you need me to eat? Sleep? Throw up? Anything you need, Kid, anything I can possibly do I will for you.
I have your picture, your first picture that no other kid in your class will have for show-and-tell. And the petri dish where you nestled up when you were getting ready for me. Those are bragging rights, Little Bug. Don't go anywhere before you get a chance to grow up and go to school and show 'em how absolutely amazing you've always been. What a miracle you were right from the start.
I pray for you in the shower. In the car. When I fall asleep and wake up. You are the constant thought. The biggest wish. The most I might ever stand to lose. I have begged God every day since I saw that second line to let me keep you. God is big. Infinite. Capable. For you I have begged the big God to protect something the size of a poppy seed. For you I've pleaded a case to Mary. Don't forget us. Keep my family safe.
Four weeks and four days.
I'm living for every night that I fall asleep. Every night that brings me closer to seeing you. To the reassurance that you're safe. Please stay, Baby. So much can change in four months and four days. Be here four months and four days from today. Stay until it's time to come out and then I will keep you safe.
I love you.
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