I have never been one to wonder “Why me?”. Maybe because there is no good answer, or because you can get a lot further when you aren’t walking backwards.
The question haunted my mind often in the early days of grief, when I couldn’t see my way out, but I’ve never come back to it.
This Christmas, knee deep in wrapping paper and the lullaby of laughter, I watched scenes unfold.
Scenes we wrapped and dreamt of and tied delicately, and I found myself offering up another question-never-to-be-answered to the universe.
Why not me?
Why not us?
Why can’t we have her?
Why can’t my daughter ooh and ahh over boxes of matching dolls, trading so her sister can have the one in purple?
Or my boys get dragged into tea parties by two princesses, plastic heels clicking against tile?
Or my husband.
I see the twinge of sadness as he reads to them, the swirl of bittersweet when he dances with his daughter and the sigh of grief in his shoulders when all is still.
He would be an amazing Daddy to one more.
Why can’t he have her too?
I know many of you are getting ready to comment and tell me my daughter is in a better place.
But as her mother, sitting in the home that was meant for her, love overflowing from every bedtime bath, back yard swing and peanut butter and jelly sandwich without crust…
there is no place more perfect than right here.
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