You’re my biggest regret. Not having you was a mistake. When I was younger, I dreamed of holding you in my arms — I imagined you with a twin brother. Always twins. Girl and a boy. My paternal grandmother had two sets. I was confident I would too.
Emma or Elle? I like them both equally, a languid roll off the tongue. Emma, look over here! Elle — or maybe Ellie until you’re a teenager and insist on Elle — do you want to wear your purple boots today? I would have decided once you were swaddled in my arms, once I looked into your eyes, glanced at those perfectly bowed lips.
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Your lips would have been full and lovely and pink, unlike my tragically paper thin ones. I wanted that for you.
I’m not sure what happened, why I never got around to having you.
Seems like everything else I wanted I willed into existence. Houses, cars, jobs.
It’s like you slipped to the bottom of my ‘to do’ list and then just fell off completely.
On my bad days, I think I was too busy being a party girl, wasting my life away with happy hours, men who didn’t reciprocate my love, and bottomless margaritas. Why wallow in that pit though, right?
On my better days, I think it just wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t God’s will.
That’s kind of a cop out though. Reality feels like I just got too busy — reached for different things. My twenties may have been about partying, but my thirties were about making money and surviving.