I wanted to name you Sophia, Sophie for short. It’s a cheerful name, there’s something sweet about how it rolls off the tongue. But he named you Eva, it’s a bit sharp, bold sounding. it’s not the vision I had for you when I brought you into this world.
It’s true I do have another daughter, but I didn’t know I was pregnant when I held you. After your father sent me home to live with my mother, I found out another baby was on the way. It wasn’t planned, but I made it work in secrecy with the help of my own mother.
I need you to know that your father escaped with you. Unfortunately, I was broken and too weak to fight him. I had no idea where he was and had to make peace with knowing that if you chose to find me one day, it was meant to be. I don’t have many memories of you before he took you away, but I do remember your first word was Mama. I do remember your tiny fingers gripping mine when I looked into your wide eyes. I remember you smiled and cooed a lot. I remember you were a happy baby for the most part and that’s what I chose to hold onto when he ripped you out of my life. I remembered your sweet gestures, that feeling of a child looking into her mother’s eyes with absolute, complete trust.
I do, I remember all of this.
I remembered it when I was down-down, in a black depression like my life had been sucked right out of me and it had, truly so I didn’t take my meds, the ones that balanced my brain. No, I didn’t, instead I walked the streets humming songs trying to find my way. I searched and searched and searched for the path, a beam of light that might bring me to you. I roamed around, out of my mind, until the blue lights flashed-flashed, and they sedated me time and time again until I became weary, lifeless, in a trance so I finally swallowed the damn pills and found some clarity.
See, one day, I woke up and realized that my grief for you was keeping me from living, and that I still had another daughter to live for.
I still had one more chance.
It’s true I do have another daughter, but I didn’t know I was pregnant when I held you. After your father sent me home to live with my mother, I found out another baby was on the way. It wasn’t planned, but I made it work in secrecy with the help of my own mother.
I need you to know that your father escaped with you. Unfortunately, I was broken and too weak to fight him. I had no idea where he was and had to make peace with knowing that if you chose to find me one day, it was meant to be. I don’t have many memories of you before he took you away, but I do remember your first word was Mama. I do remember your tiny fingers gripping mine when I looked into your wide eyes. I remember you smiled and cooed a lot. I remember you were a happy baby for the most part and that’s what I chose to hold onto when he ripped you out of my life. I remembered your sweet gestures, that feeling of a child looking into her mother’s eyes with absolute, complete trust.
I do, I remember all of this.
I remembered it when I was down-down, in a black depression like my life had been sucked right out of me and it had, truly so I didn’t take my meds, the ones that balanced my brain. No, I didn’t, instead I walked the streets humming songs trying to find my way. I searched and searched and searched for the path, a beam of light that might bring me to you. I roamed around, out of my mind, until the blue lights flashed-flashed, and they sedated me time and time again until I became weary, lifeless, in a trance so I finally swallowed the damn pills and found some clarity.
See, one day, I woke up and realized that my grief for you was keeping me from living, and that I still had another daughter to live for.
I still had one more chance.
