Dear Bella,

We made it through the first year of high school. We have three years left, and though it sounds like a lot to Bo, it feels much too short for me. Tenth grade is looming before us, and she is much more prepared than me.

Chris Newton is a mortal enemy, so that helps. I refuse to enter Newton's store for new running shoes and drive almost an hour when we need new ones.

Bo has started going on runs with me in the morning. We don't speak, but the time with her means so much. We run three miles, and she is always grinning at the end, chatting about the day ahead as I make our breakfast smoothies.

She is already talking about getting her license, and it scares me to death. I am relishing the mornings I drop her off for school because she will be driving herself in a few more months. I promised her a car if she keeps her grades up, which is silly since she hasn't ever gotten a C and will contest the grade if it is a B. Her teachers love her, yet she exasperates them with her need for perfection. I try to quell her need for it where I can. I never nag about her room; rather, I grab the clothes left on her floor before She gets home from school. If she doesn't load the dishwasher after dinner, I stay quiet and allow her to do it in the morning before school. It's my little way of letting her know I don't expect perfection.

It was hard for me to learn to leave things for her instead of doing her chores for her. I do voice when I think she is pushing herself too hard and will make her take a study break on the weekends for pizza and a movie with her old man. Sunday, we have ice cream dates, and your dad pops in every now and again to join us. And almost every Thursday, we all have dinner together if his schedule abides.

Bo may be wonderful, though I finally made it a rule that muttering wasn't allowed after hearing it once too many times as my back turned. If you cannot say it loud and proud, then it doesn't need to be said at all. Now, I just get the facial expressions before she leaves the room, and they are just as fun.

I can't complain, though. Not when there are nights where she plops herself on the couch, throwing her legs over my lap as she eats Oreo cookies out of the package and watches the Mariners game with me. Charlie bought her tickets for her recent birthday. He tells her how much you hated baseball, and they laugh as if it was an inside joke. He has that way with her, making her feel as if she knew you when he tells a story.

I can't give input and would rather just listen, struggling with taking part in their conversation, yet also wanting to keep my memories inside. Sometimes I think I am afraid if I let too many out, I'll forget the little ones that don't need to be told to others.

I will never forget the twinkling sound of your laughter or the snort that let out when you were truly amused. How you hated when I grabbed your thigh because I knew that was your most ticklish spot, and you would fight for dear life to get me to stop. And that you and Bo each have an identical freckle on your right cheek.

I could say those aloud, though.

I couldn't very well tell your daughter and father about our time in the meadow, our very first time. How we were soaked afterward because the ground beneath us never does fully dry, and you had flower petals scattered throughout your hair. It took me almost an hour to pick each and every one out. I never told you that I saved a few and pressed them into my favorite book. I haven't opened it since, for fear of losing them. I bought a second copy to read for that very reason.

I also won't tell the cheese story when you were in your first trimester. How I brought you back yellow cheddar, and you threw the brick back at me, tears streaming down your face as you yelled that it wasn't the right kind of cheese and that cheddar wasn't yellow, it was white. I left and came back with two bags of every white kind of cheese I could find. You pouted as you sorted through them till you let out a shriek of victory, holding up the plaid wrapper that read Cabot's Vermont Sharp. I had no idea that your dad only bought that one kind for you growing up. You cried once more, begging for me to forgive your horrible behavior, though there was nothing for me to forgive. That didn't have me stopping you from showing me right on the kitchen counter, though.

There are a few nights I lay in bed and crave you like a body needs air to breathe. I want to remind myself that I've made it this long, that I have Bo, but sometimes it isn't enough, and I still find myself screaming into my pillow, wondering why you were taken from us. I can't look at another woman the way I looked at you; I can't love someone as I loved you, and sometimes I wish I could. If I could find someone to be happy with, maybe I wouldn't hurt like I do. But I realize I would be cheating myself and the other woman because no one will ever take your place or mean nearly as much as you did. That piece of my heart was buried with you, the rest saved for Bo.

I am content with the life I live, raising our daughter, and being a father. There is little else I need. She has become my best friend, a spot you once filled. It seems right she is now in that position since you aren't here to fill it. She even teases me, throwing a wink in my direction to show no hard feelings, just like you use to.

Each day I am reminded that you are still with me, at least part of you.

I love you, Bella.

Love,

Your Edward

Thanks Fran, my wonderful and dear Beta!