Dear Bella,

I love you. I need to say that first as if you can hear it. Maybe you can, perhaps my letters are not just for my personal therapy, maybe you are reading over my shoulder. I can almost feel your hands there, your breath in my ear as you lean in to see better. Smell your hair that tickles my neck.

It's been almost five years, and our baby should be in pre-K. I brought her for the first day, but she clung to my legs and screamed, I caved and grabbed her into my arms, holding her close as we ran from the building. I sped to the nearest restaurant and we ordered more food than either of us could eat, anything she wanted she got that day- hence the trampoline that makes my heart stop every time she uses it.

Mom says I need to be firmer with her, but, oh Bella … if only you could see her. She has your determined set to her mouth, tucking in her lips and squinting her eyes when she wants her way. Her hair isn't as dark brown as yours; it's a lighter shade with red highlights, and freckles are sprinkled across her nose like mine. Otherwise, she is you, through and through, and it makes me so happy, yet so incredibly sad sometimes too.

I have found a new norm. I'm sleeping and eating like I should; though there are times I still I struggle not to lay your urn beside me and curl around it. Too many nights, I wake in a sweat with a silent scream.

Our last night, the last time you looked at me and smiled; the excitement of our daughter's birth making us giddy. Seconds later, you breathed, I love you, squeezing my hand as a contraction hit.

The machine … that noise … nurses were rushing into the room, security pulling me away from you as doctors wheeled you out … yelling over one another and the commotion of that damn machine.

I felt so lost, pacing the room you were supposed to be in to bring our daughter into the world. Not even an hour later, I was told we had a healthy baby girl. I had a daughter, but you couldn't wake up. It took two weeks before they finally said you would never again open your eyes.

Why am I writing this to you? You were there, after all. I am only revisiting something that haunts us both. I pray that you really are over my shoulder, watching Bo and me, reading as I write words I can't say aloud. I want to go to sleep at night with the thought that you are lying beside me and that I just can't see you. Sometimes I think about it so hard; it's as if I can feel the bed shift, like you are climbing in and actually there watching me. I want it, I do, but I also hope that if it is possible, that you are looking in on Bo too.

Tell me it isn't in my head and that she is the most beautiful baby you have ever seen? She isn't so much a baby now, though. She makes friends at the park every time we go, new and old. She has no fears, much to my dismay. One day I caught her standing on top of the monkey bars, prepared to do a cartwheel like she saw on TV. That's the real reason she is now in gymnastics.

Bella, I miss you so badly. Every night you consume me. There will never be another.

You have my heart, always and forever.

Love,

Your Edward

As always, thank you for all your help Fran!