They talk about my “options,” as though this is a decision between vanilla and chocolate, not life and death

I’ve never known you. I’ve never seen you.

But you and I share a secret.

It’s a secret we share: me, your father, and a couple of doctors who have nothing positive to say about you, my little one. My little baby.

Do the details really matter? They say you won’t make it out alive.

But right now, you are alive.

I know you are. I can feel it, every moment of the day. So alive.

They talk about my “options,” as though this is a decision between vanilla and chocolate, not life and death.

But you are alive, my child. And you are mine. And as long as you are still living, I will keep you inside me.

I attend a sheva brachos. Or maybe a vort. Does it matter? Happy faces swirl all around me. Young women, old ones, all eager, all caring. All interested in how I’m doing.

“When are you due?” I’m asked again and again.