Dear X,

I keep imagining your parents right now, preparing themselves, setting up your room, building the crib and putting up a painting of a rabbit or a sheep or something equally cute on the wall they painted in soft colors just for you. I want your mom to have a rocking chair. I want her to sing to you. My mom used to sing to me, I think. When I was little.

I called my mom today. She asked me how I was, and I said I was ready.

“Can I move in with you?” I asked her. “After she’s born?”

“You want to move to Colorado?” she asked me, surprised. I always wanted to stay in Idaho before, with Dad and his quiet instead of Mom and her yelling.

“I don’t want to go back with Dad,” I told her, and I didn’t tell her why—God knows she’s already fully aware that Dad has his problems. I didn’t want to bring up the way he looked at Ted, and how every time I think about Dad now, I see Ted’s face trying to be nice to this guy who’s obviously a racist asshole.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Mom said. “I’ll ask Brett, but I think he’ll be okay with it.”

“Thanks.”

“Then you can really put it behind you, once this is all over. You can start fresh,” she said.

“Right,” I agreed with her. “I’ll have a clean slate.”

I really am ready now, X.

It makes me think about something Heather said once, back when she was about as pregnant as I am now. Her grandmother was in the process of dying of cancer, and Heather said she felt like they were both having a similar experience—her grandmother and her. They were about to go through something inevitable and terrifying, something that they couldn’t control and didn’t know exactly when or how it would happen. But eventually they’d both just have to get it over with—to die, to give birth—and come out on the other side.

I guess I’ll see you on the other side.

S