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.