Interstitial
Dear Penny,
Today you are sixteen, and I will not be there to see it. The first time I held you, I rubbed your cheek against mine, then traced the shell of your ear while whispering promises. I will be strong for you. I will love you unconditionally. I will always be here. I’m sorry we won’t have more time together.
On the flight home from the hospital sixteen years ago today, I refused to put you down. You were so tiny. I was afraid of all the things that could go wrong, all the things that might hurt you. Over the years, I watched you grow. Crawling at seven months, then walking just two months later. We childproofed the house: covering outlet plugs, taping up sharp corners, fencing off the stairs. But you were curious and tenacious. You pulled the fence down. You removed the outlet covers. You chewed the sharp corners. Maybe more puppy than baby. I wondered how I was supposed to keep you alive. On it went, your thirst for the unknown. No obstacle was too big. I imagined you conquering anything, climbing a mountain, and beating your chest—always victorious.
At one and a half years old, you ran down sidewalks. At two, you rode a scooter for the first time. I chased you down the pavement, catching you before you crashed or crying when I wasn’t fast enough and you did. On it went—time passing in a happy blur. I stood under the monkey bars while you hung from them. Followed on the balance beam while you carefully traversed it. Always there, teeth gritted, waiting to save you. Be careful, I’d say. Don’t go too fast. It was all my misguided attempt to slow time, keep you, my little girl, longer. But we can’t stop from moving forward, from getting old, from dying.
When you were four, you started to ask why. Why do I have to brush my teeth? Why do I have to stop playing? Why do I look different from Mommy and Daddy? A lightning bolt struck me then, piercing the heart of my insecurities. I feared I wasn’t enough for you. That you had questions I would never be able to answer. That someone else might take you from me. That although you were mine, you were someone else’s first. When you feel something slipping from your fingers, it is a natural instinct to clench your fist. I told you it didn’t matter that we looked different. What mattered was the love we shared. I saw the dissatisfaction in your eyes. Over the years, you asked more questions. I answered, but not in the way I should have. I knew you felt it, the sharp edges of my discomfort. I’m sorry too now, for all the things I never said.
In our bedroom closet, on the top shelf (behind the awful hat your father bought for our vacation to Mexico), is a box. Inside is your original birth certificate, adoption paperwork, and copies of packages I sent to your birth mother. Her name is Mika Suzuki. You should know, we agreed to a closed adoption. I am unsure if she will welcome you. But it is my hope she will.
I hope she will help quench your thirst for the world. I hope she will answer all the questions I never could. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. Don’t let me hold you back. You have my permission to run. To go. Not that you need it. But there it is. My blessing to find your birth mother. To ask what I could never answer. I get it now. I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t see it before. I think that’s what being a parent is all about—loving something and letting it go.
I love you,
Mom