I wrote Saturday’s post with V’s permission but it rings hollow, because what I really want to say, what I most want to tell her is more like this.
Holy fuck, child, this is not the life I had planned for us when I was a little girl dreaming of a daughter of my own. This is not where I thought we’d be on your tenth birthday, the two of us rattling around in a cluttered 4 bedroom house except every other weekend when you’re with your dad. I never imagined any of this, including your brilliance or passion or terror. You bring light and hilarity every day, and humble me with it.
And I am so sorry. I loved your dad with everything I had and he loved me too and it still wasn’t enough. I don’t want to say this to you because you are ten and I want you to believe in magic and true love and hard work because all of those are real and good but sweet Jesus even with all of them together sometimes it’s not enough.
So many times I’m impatient with you or too tired or busy grading to play. I want to show you how to unlock and discover all the good in this world (within and without of yourself) and I am trying my hardest to be healthy and brave alongside you so we can see it all, taste it all, be it all.
I’m sorry for the broken spots and the mighty rough patches.
I am grateful for your life. I love you so.