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A Letter to My Daughter on What Would’ve Been Her 18th Birthday
Dear Ana,
You are supposed to turn 18 today. I have to keep reminding myself to stop thinking of you as 15 years old. It seems crazy — and so unfair — that I need a reminder at all. Part of my brain will always hold onto you at the age you were when you died, just three weeks shy of your 16th birthday. I’m so sorry about that.
I’m compelled to remember every year of your life in a way that most parents don’t have to think about. Because they get to see their kids grow up and become adults. That’s the consolation prize you’re supposed to get as a parent, the trade-off for the passage of time and the sadness that comes with having an empty nest.
As I sit here trying to imagine you at 18 years old, I can’t stop thinking about your first birthday. It was a rainy and gray day, so we couldn’t have a party outside, something that upset me at the time even though you couldn’t have known the difference.
I’ve managed to hold onto a glimpse of that day in my mind. I can see you toddling up our wet driveway, wearing a tan and pink dress that came to your chubby knees.
