Dear Terrence,

I'm sorry that I didn't write for such a long time. You know that I was thinking of you every day, but your grandma and grandpa came to see me, and then I went back to work. I figured that mourning you would be easier if I could just find enough to occupy myself. With everything I asked myself to do, it was hard to write to you, to line up all the words neatly and tell you how life was going without you.

Really, it's just been hard.

But your daddy's been asleep since 7:50, and it seems like a good time to talk.

Maybe you would be proud of me. I do my best to act like I'm okay, and some days I actually am. But some days my coworkers catch me with my eyes full of tears, and I tell them it's just allergies. (Some of the people at work are new, and I'm not sure that they know about you.) Some days your dad catches me crying in bed alone when I'm supposedly reading. Just Sunday, we walked past the baby section at Target, past the little pairs of blue shoes, and even though I tried really hard not to cry, I did. Standing there made me think of how much I was looking forward to picking out little outfits for you, how I don't get to do that now. Your father was so good. He just held me while I sobbed (ugly, messy sobs) and he even ended up making me laugh.

I don't know why, but I miss you more now than I did at first. I remember taking a class on death and dying when I was in college and learning all of the alleged stages of grief. For a large part of the last month, I think I fell accidentally into denial; it seemed like you might have been someone else's little boy--some very close friend whose pain I could understand but not really feel. But more and more, this terrible emptiness opens itself in my gut to remind me how much you were my baby, my loss.

I like knowing that the weeping cherry we planted for you is growing green, new leaves in the backyard. I was afraid that it would make me cry to see it, that it would be a reminder of how you would never grow. But whenever I see it, I feel this calmness creep through me. At first, I was so afraid that it would turn brown and die, but when I see the tree doing well, it makes me think that the future might have something bright in store for me after all.

Dear Terrence,

I woke up early this morning because, for whatever reason, my bladder seems to be under the impression that your little skull is still resting on it. Your daddy was already awake, blowing up video game tanks with his video game tank.

We gave each other a big hug like we do every morning. Then your dad said, "I know. Wait there."

He grabbed a bunch of blankets and went into the front room, and we snuggled up on the couch. Your dad said he'd never lived anywhere with a window that faced east before, and then we sat and watched the sky turn pink, saw the small clouds passing by warmed by the gold of the new sun.

I thought for one second about what that moment would have been like if you'd lived, if I had been holding you as the sun rose. If you had lived, you would never have been able to see the sun, to even know what a color was. I let the thought of you drift off and cried into your daddy's shirt for a while.

I don't think I have ever loved your dad more than I did right then, as we looked out at the sleepy world through our window. I don't know how I could have made it through all of this without him.

Yesterday, he had to tell two people about losing you. One was a lawn care client who was complaining that her tree and shrub treatment was late because some guy at work was out sick. Your dad explained that he was the one who had been out, and that it was because his baby had died. Apparently, she didn't complain any more after that.

The receptionist at the dentist's office asked if we'd found out if you were a boy or a girl. (Your dad had a dentist's appointment the morning before your ultrasound. I guess he was so excited he'd been telling everybody.) He had to explain that you were a little boy, and that you weren't here anymore.

I have no idea how where he gets his strength from. I can't even get through writing you a letter without crying the whole time.

We were both convinced that you were a little girl, but he had contingency plans in case you were a boy. He wanted to teach you how to play tennis and be your troop leader for Boy Scouts. He would have been a wonderful father to you.

Your grandma and grandpa are coming to visit from Pennsylvania today. I did some normal things after your dad went to work; I needed to prove to myself that I could go out into the world without falling apart.

I went to the store and bought some cheese to make a lasagna so your grandma won't spend the entire time cooking like she usually does when she visits. I stopped and bought a coffee with a pile of whipped cream on top. I went to the bank and deposited a check your grandma sent me for Mother's Day to help me buy a mattress for your crib. When I saw the word "mattress" on the check, I cried again.

I haven't been in your room since we lost you. Your daddy closed the door so I wouldn't have to look at your empty crib or the cute little safari crib set that Aunt Erin bought for you. I think he put your memory box in there, though, so I probably have to go in later today so that grandma and grandpa can see your pictures.

I guess this must be something that most hospitals do for parents when they lose their babies. They told your dad at the hospital that they don't like to send anyone home empty-handed.

They dressed you up in a cute little outfit and took your picture. The one they took of your hands is blurry so that I can't see your extra little fingers very well. In the box with the pictures are little blue prints of your feet, and the blanket and outfit that they gave you.

As much as I don't want to look at that box, I know it's the closest I'll ever come to holding my little boy again. And I'm glad, too, that I have some part of you to share with my parents. I know how much they love and miss you, too.

Love,

Mom

Dear Baby,

One of the first things I wanted to do when I found out about you was to write to you. But I never did.

I'm not sure that I can explain why. I was very tired and sad for most of my pregnancy, and I suppose I thought I'd have more time for writing after you were born. Maybe I got too caught up in thinking about all the things I had planned on doing before I found out I was having a baby and would now never be able to do.

Faced with all of those possibilities now, I would trade them all in for you to be healthy and alive.

A week ago, your daddy and I were so excited to find out if you were a little girl or boy. The doctor must have been explaining what was wrong with you for two or three minutes before I started crying. It was hard to believe that my baby, who danced around inside of me, whose heart sounded so strong, had so many problems.

I don't know about souls or what you might understand, wherever you are now, but I hope you know that we made our choice because we love you, because no baby should have to be born into a life of certain pain, with a 5-10% chance of living through his first week. With no hope of ever thinking or seeing or having a moment without suffering. Still, it's the hardest decision that I have ever had to make.

We were both afraid that you wouldn't even look like a baby, and we weren't sure that we wanted to see you or hold you. But I'm glad that I did, and I know your father agrees. You were such a beautiful little boy. The nurse was right; it just looked like your eyes were closed, not that they had never grown.

There was a moment as I held your still-warm little body that your mouth opened and closed, and I thought that maybe you weren't dead after all. In that moment, it seemed like a miracle had happened, all of your problems had vanished, and I would get to be your mommy after all. But that moment passed quickly. You weren't breathing. You weren't crying. You never would. And in a little while, we would let the nurse take you away, and we would never see you again.

Your daddy named you Terrence for no other reason than that he thought you looked like a Terrence. You did, too. I finally looked up your name yesterday to see what it meant. And no one knows what it means.

No one knows what it means.

I don't know how often I will write to you. I know it's important to look ahead, to find promise in the future even if it isn't the promise I had hoped for. But there will always be a part of me that misses and loves you and will always be your mother.