Dear little one,
I wish I could tell you who you were meant to be,
but I never had the chance to meet you.
You were supposed to laugh without hesitation,
to dance barefoot in the grass,
to wake up without the weight of the world
pressed against your chest.
You were supposed to dream
without fearing the fall,
to believe in love
without flinching at its touch.
You should have known kindness
without conditions,
safety without apologies,
home without war.
But they took you from me
before you ever had a chance to breathe.
They stole your voice
and left me with the echoes,
turned your soft hands into fists,
your open heart into armor.
I search for you in the quiet,
in the spaces between my ribs,
but all I find are ghosts—
memories that were never made,
a life that was never lived.
I carry you still,
even in the ruins,
even in the spaces where childhood should have been.
And if I could,
I would build you a home in my arms,
rock you to sleep with a lullaby
you were never sung.
I cannot bring you back,
but I can promise this:
I will live for us both.
I will find the softness the world denied you,
and I will whisper your name
into the wind—
so you know you were never forgotten.
This is a letter to the child I never got to be—the version of me who should have known love without conditions, safety without fear, and joy without pain. This is for them, for the life they never had.