I’ve been composing these letters in my head for a while now. Letters to you that you can read one day, to know how hard we fought to have you here. I stop short of typing them: what if they jinx us? What if you don’t come, and I have written these and put them out there in the universe? What if, what if, what if? That is the theme of our past couple of years; I grow tired of not knowing. I’ve become a planner in ways I never thought I would, having to know when we will leave to go somewhere, when we will be back, what we will do . . . it’s all because I can’t plan you. It’s driving him crazy.
That’s what I will call us: you, me, and him. I can’t go as far as to start calling him dad. It isn’t fair.
I will tell you the start of it all: A monopoly game and a crappy beach cabin. We have a knack for finding the grossest cabins available when we go to the beach. The kind where you put towels down on the couch before you sit. I don’t know how we manage to do it. This one, though, was right on the beach. We could listen to the ocean come in and go out while we played a four-day game of monopoly. And somewhere in there, one of those yellow-lit nights, I said: what if we did? And he said: we could. And we sat on our blankets on the couch with Igby in our laps and looked at each other and saw possibility. Why not?
Years have passed since then. Years. Babies that weren’t even dreamed of that day have taken their first steps. It should be as easy as we thought it would be that night, but this story wasn’t meant to be in three acts.
You might come from me, you might come from a foreign country that I’ve never been to or dreamed of. I still feel that you will come, when the time is right.
Today we are going to a clinic that is supposed to be one of the best in the nation. I hope they bring us closer to you.