To my youngest,

I have written this letter many times in my head over the last five years. What I keep coming back to in each rewriting is the fact that I don’t have anyone to send this letter to. I will never place this letter in your hands. I will never discuss the situation or the circumstances that lead to my decision with you. I won’t be able to tell you how sorry I am. Sorry that I wasn’t brave enough or strong enough. How utterly sorry I feel for not having you in my life.

But I also won’t be able to tell you how much pain you missed. He would have made you the scapegoat for everything that went wrong. Every time there wasn’t enough money, it would have been your fault. Every time something had to be sacrificed (like your father’s weekly drinking money), it would have been your fault. I didn’t want you to grow up that way. I wanted you to have a happy childhood.

I want you to know I miss you. I miss not having you. As little as you were, I hope you understand now why.

But I also want you to know your little life wasn’t completely in vain. I left him. Your little life had purpose and meaning to me.

Love from the one who should have been your mother, age 38