“if only you could see”

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The letter is stamped with [return to sender].

Avery Orson Schei,
You were born June 2nd, 2018, at 3pm.

From the moment you were born, you were a heart breaker.

You weighed 4 lbs and 10 ounces at the time the emergency c-section was performed. Due to unforeseeable complications, you passed silently sometime during the night, and in the morning, mom could tell something wasn't right.

At the hospital, mom gave birth to you, and your sister, Elliott Parker, who weighed 4 lbs and 7 ounces. Your sister held your hand as she stuck her tongue out at the camera taking pictures.

When your mother held you for the first time, she knew the love she felt for the last 33 weeks was real. The hopes and dreams your parents had for you may never be realized, you won't get to grow up like other children will, like your sister will.

But you will never have to face the hardships of this world. You will never have to experience disappointment, or sadness. And you will never cause your parents any disappointment or sadness.

You were born, still. A perfect, innocent heart forever.

This letter is addressed to Dianna and Jacob.

What set of plans have ever called for the loss a child, before they even have a chance to begin?
What better place is there for a child, than in his mother's arms?
What good is "there's still more time" when time has stopped for this one?
What love you had for one cannot be simply replaced by another.
Avery will forever hold a place in your hearts-- one that can never be filled by anything else but the love you have felt for him, and may continue to feel.

Your grief will come in waves expected and unexpected. You have each other, and everyone here, to stand by your side, and break the waves through it all.

This letter is addressed to Liam.

You were, and always will be, Mommy's little boy. Her firstborn son that filled her with a light only parenthood could shine upon her. You are your father's smile and kindness. Some days, mom might hug you just a little bit tighter and you won't understand why, but you'll squirm or hug her just as tightly and go back to playing. You may not have the little brother you hoped for, along with a sister, but you can still be the big brother you wanted to be, for Elliott.

This letter is addressed to Elliott.

There might be some days where you can't explain why you don't feel 100% whole. It's okay because you can carry the memory of your brother with you, always. You weren't identical twins, but you shared the womb with your brother, and that is your special bond.

Maybe there will be days where Mom or Dad looks at you, and in your eyes they also see Avery's. They don't love you any less; they might keep you closer to the heart, taking extra precautions along the way, because the loss has made them wary to the world.

This letter is addressed to Mimi and Pawpaw Erik.

The loss of a child is unimaginable. To watch as your own daughter goes through the unimaginable is even harder. You hope and wish and pray that everything goes just the way it's supposed to.

But then it doesn't.

And in that moment, she is no longer the strong woman who has raised her son for the last five years, no longer the wife of a husband who she supports faithfully. She is your little girl. Your first daughter, and you cannot take her hurt away. You can't kiss the spot where it hurts the most, put a band-aid on it, wipe her tears away.

But you can teach her that it's possible to go on. That you can continue to live and love, even in the face of something as insurmountable as this. Because you have your own strength from experiences to give and do what all mothers must do at some point-- sacrifice a part of yourself for your children.