To my dear beloved special Dovi,
In all likelihood, you will probably never read this letter. It will take a miracle for you to ever learn to read. I have learned to stop expecting miracles. I am still waiting for you to call me “Mama.” It might never happen either.
This Shabbos is a very special day. It is Totty’s and my seventeenth anniversary. Five years ago, on our twelfth anniversary, something incredibly special happened. I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live. After 9 months of pregnancy and 13 endless hours of labor, a writhing, screaming, gorgeous, pink, healthy 7 pound little boy was thrown onto a blue sheet that had been draped across my belly. I cried for five minutes straight. I couldn’t believe that after struggling with infertility for 9 years, and struggling to raise a head-strong preemie for almost 3 years, I was granted a second chance at making things right. A little brother for Chaim. It was incredible. Totty and I looked at each other and I commented, “How amazing is it that on our twenty-fifth anniversary we will celebrate this baby’s bar mitzvah?” The future was bright and exciting, the possibilities open and endless.
Little did we know.
