A/N: Many thanks to my beta, my only one, who knows my story better than me and notices when I mess up the time line.

Chapter 7: Bludgeonings of chance

Boston, 20th of February 2018

Dearest Alban,

last night you dreamt of a wolf again, which turned out to be one of those stories we absolutely need to keep. One that could be told at all the mile stones of your life and that might make you love and hate us all the same.

The wolf crept into your dreams, nightmares really, a couple of months back. If I didn't know better, I'd say you inherited your Ma's vivid dreams. Then again, perhaps I don't know any better. In the end, science is at a loss with these kind of things. Jane thinks the scary wolf is your way of explaining Eli's death. Of course, none of that makes the funny, memorable story I was talking about.

One night, Jane tried to hand you the tools to deal with the animal that haunts you. While you were pressed against my chest, exhausted and at the same time too afraid to go back to sleep, she told you to imagine the wolf skidding around on roller skates. You had to laugh at that and let yourself be put to bed without further complaints.

Now last night, you woke up screaming again, and as we rushed into your room, you told us in a very detailed manner about the wolf chasing you on skates. We obviously have to think of a different approach.

.

I've just flicked through this album we made for you, and checked whether one of us has actually ever wrote about the day we found out about your hearing. We haven't. Maybe this in itself is a statement to how our life is. I did find a letter from Jane to you, though. The one where she wrote about the day you were born and where she says there is only one specific Alban story she wants. No what ifs.

I hope you know that you are, always have been, and forever will be exactly the person we want and love. The story of that day shouldn't be missing in here, neither because nor despite of who you are.

That day, Jane came home from work a little later than she had intended. Apparently, she called out for us from the driveway, then again inside the house, saying she was sorry for being late. She later told me she thought I was mad at her because of that, when in reality I just hadn't been able to acknowledge her presence right away.

She stepped up to where I was standing at the kitchen counter, radiating worry because of how still and distanced I must have seemed. I was watching you and your brother playing in the living room. We used to spread out a blanket there for you, however, you seldom stayed in one place while playing. Your toys were scattered all over the floor.

Jane said my name once more, but I was incapable of taking my eyes off of you, as you were sitting at the far end of our living room, your back to us. I did not turn to look at her until she made me, her hands on my shoulders were gentle and firm at the same time. I honestly recall every single moment of that.

She looked at me bewildered and inquiring. I told her she needed to watch something and while I knew my hushed and frightened voice had the power to terrify her, I couldn't help it. Without another word, I turned again and took baby steps into your direction. I can still hear the sound of your building blocks whenever they fell out of your tiny hands and clattered onto the floor. I can hear Charra's babbling from another part of the room.

As I got closer to you, I called out your name. Once, twice, three times. You never looked up.

When I gazed back at Jane over my shoulder, I knew all the blood had left my face. I told her that you couldn't hear me. She immediately brushed me off, dismissed that undocumented diagnose, and said you were simply engrossed in your playing. I shook my head at that – at her, I believe, for not wanting to grasp this reality. Or for not being able to grasp it.

She tried it herself then. Went up to you. Called your name. You gave her the brightest smile when she crouched down in front of you. You stood on your wobbly legs and came over to her as quickly as you could. As soon as you actually saw her.

Tears filled my eyes as she took you in her arms and looked back at me. I knew that she knew and vice versa. I wish I could say we weren't sad or scared because of what it meant for your sense of hearing, but at the time we were. We didn't know what had caused it. We were frightened by the hardship we thought it might cause in your life. And I could not understand at all why I hadn't realized it sooner.

That day, you were 14 months and 9 days old. How could it have taken me that long to recognize that you were hard of hearing? So many things made sense right then. For one, why you never stirred when Charra's powerful lungs would wake the whole neighborhood at night.

In the following weeks, we dragged you to all the necessary tests. The most probable reason is a nerve damage you were born with, however, there is no way to be sure about that.

One of the first things the doctors told us was that we should not raise you bilingual, that it wouldn't be fair to you, since you already had so much to conquer. Jane was boiling with anger. On the ride home, she said if learning afaan Oromo wasn't fair on anyone it would be her and her brain's poor capacity.

We decided to keep living the life we intended to live. We all managed. The 36 and 48 decibel hearing loss you got in your left and your right ear have not stopped you from doing anything. You and your brother share three languages, and Jane managed to adopt them too. You have never felt sorry for yourself. I believe one is not born with that trait, it is something that comes with social interaction.

It's not (and shouldn't be) a secret that your Mama felt like you were someone who somehow happened to her. She never felt sorry for herself, though, either. She didn't expect you, but she embraced you fully. She didn't aim for you, but felt she won everything. She may not have wished for you, but you fulfilled her wildest dreams.

And mine. I am in awe with what you make me see. We had a long and warm fall last year. Each day, the sun lit a fire in the colorful tree crowns. You whirled around in the already fallen leaves, caught in a wind from the North. For the rainier days, Charra and you got new pairs of rubber boots and little umbrellas. The sound of your laughter while you were splashing through puddles is something that will hopefully stay with me for a very long time.

I hope one day you get the chance to learn about your mother's treasure box. I want you to listen to the tape that probably holds the funniest radio quiz-show on earth. I hope you get to see the tiny photograph from 1983 where you need a magnifying glass to make out that Jane, Frankie and Tommy are holding hands. I hope you get to hold the small cowboy who lost one of his hands, the one he must have used to shield his eyes when gazing into the horizon; or the trampled table tennis ball from an epic game with Frankie.

These collected memories prompt me to imagine what Frankie and Tommy might have been like as children, what it must have been like for your Ma to grow up with two little brothers around. I will never unwrap all the layers of significance, I presume, but it gives me hope that one day, you and Charra would also feel how much your brotherhood means, that you'd want to keep each other's toys as a reminder of shared and precious times.

Now winter has come, the oak trees slumber, the fir trees got cut. 60 inches of snow have fallen. It amazes me how, during this time of the year, sky and earth appear to be in a seamless transition. Only two more months and you'll be four years old. Four years, unbelievable. If the weather is good enough we will have a party in our backyard.

The year you were born winter didn't seem to want to leave. Maybe spring was waiting for your arrival. I was waiting, too. I don't think I have ever been waiting so excitedly for anyone before you. When we came home with you and laid you down on Jane's bed, I unwrapped you and covered your Ma with a blanket. She was exhausted and kept dozing off, never went fully to sleep, though, but checked on you again and again, making sure you were alright, which basically meant breathing.

I stayed with you two the whole night. You held one of my fingers for most of it and I waited and waited and waited... I felt like a guardian, whose task was to be there, to be ready, but who had been denied the knowledge of what she was expected to witness. And then you opened your eyes. And I knew.

Your nonna once told me a story: each time a child is born, the world gets created anew. You could say the world comes to the child. Being born means the world gets presented as a gift to you. The world will never be old and gray. You will be old and gray one day. But as long as children come into this world it will be as brand-new as it has been on the day of its creation.

You looked at me, because I looked at you. Unseeing, I know, but still your eyes rested on mine. I knew the world changed in that instant. I know you are still changing it. You don't have to seek something, to express dreams or visions. You are not questioning yourself and everything around you. You'd rather find everything. Just like on that first night, when you found my eyes. This is how you accomplish good.

.

Your father came to visit just after Christmas. It was the first time you two stood next to each other. Your dark hair looks nothing like his, but I actually noticed many features in you that do. Your chin, a certain good-natured sparkle in your eyes, even your posture when you were gazing up at him and he was looking down at you.

A part of me wished Jane would tell him that he could not show up in our life whenever he wanted. Despite all the things he didn't do, things that would make him a father, he is still an honorable man. If one day you feel like he failed you, then it will be you and you alone who has the right to decide what to make of that, and of him. I think Jane has done a good job in keeping this particular decision open to you.

As a matter of fact, you are going to decide what kind of parents we all have been. I wish we'd... I would never fail you.

.

There is something I have to do. In this respect, I feel the need to apologize to you and your brother, to ask for your forgiveness. However, to some degree it is not fair to ask that of you, because you have not asked for this life. I might not be able to offer you what you deserve. I know what that feels like, and I understand what it can do to you.

My dearest nutballs, I am deeply sorry for what I put you through, in case you might ever feel that I am unreliable or unavailable.

Maura.

A/N: The story about the birth of a child and the world being renewed was written by Jostein Gaarder.