Hi.

So you just found out. I know you hate me a little for not telling you earlier. But, I needed time to process. I needed time. Just a little time.

I am running out of time.

We are running out of time.

It's true, you know, what they say, about thinking back to the beginning when things are coming to an end. When the doctor told me, all I could think about was that time on the bus. Saying your name for the first time. It changed everything. It was everything. And this changes everything.

The doctor said I will be OK for a little while longer, but then I quickly won't be. Anything. Anymore. And it will be awful and sad, and I am terrified. I am so scared. I am scared of what this will do to you, and what it will do to Rosie. Which is why I've decided to write these letters. I need you to remember the good stuff when I'm gone. I need you to tell her about the good stuff. Your way. Softly. Slowly. Because, you two, you will still have time. All the time in the world. To remember just how happy we were. To appreciate how lucky we were, having what we had. I need you to hold on to the good. The great.

So here's the first great.

Remember when Rosie was born? Of course you do... that was a silly question. I wish I wasn't writing this by hand right now. Seemed like a good idea when I started, poetic and all. Handwritten letters. Didn't think about how the mess in my head will look on paper, when it can't be edited. I just thought about how I could stick them in the back of the closet, so that they would smell like me when you opened them. So that you could have the last, little, unexpected piece of me. And now it's a mess. And I'm a mess. And desperately straying off-topic here.

So, when Rosie was born. She gave us a scare, didn't she. I remember how petrified we were, because it wasn't time yet. She was too little, too fragile. She wasn't ready. And we weren't either. And when they delivered her, she didn't cry. And for the longest second everything stopped. And then she made that little noise, she used to make. That hissing noise, like we were disturbing her peace. And she started to cry. And the world went on. Never quite the same. Infinitely better.

You spent the whole next week camped out next to her incubator, talking to her. Telling her stories. Beautiful stories. Our stories. And she got better. You made her heal. And I need you to do it again. Because, I won't be able to.

Remember the first time she smiled. We were in Santa Barbara for the week. And the two of you were out on the porch. You were holding her, showing her the moon, telling her she could be an astronaut when she grew up. She could reach the moon. She was just looking at you, not comprehending a thing you were saying. And then you told her it didn't matter if she became an astronaut, because you'd always love her to the moon and back anyway. And then you started twirling around, with her in your arms, singing Moon River. And I laughed from the doorway. And for the first time, she smiled. And you smiled back at her. Beaming.

Don't let her lose that smile, Fitz. And she won't let you lose yours.

And remember, I love you too.

Livvy