My dear Shay,

I have been granted some measure of respite today. My mood was unusually light when I woke; I was spared my typical nausea, and you kick only occasionally. Perhaps you know that I need a few moments of peace. I have put this letter off entirely too long. Even now, I write only because I fear that I may not complete it before your birth. Come to think of it, there is no real reason that I should finish the letter before then. It's funny, really, how you can imagine things are certain way and convince yourself that your idea is how it must be. I’ll try to finish, anyway.

I am writing under the assumption that your adoptive parents have given you this letter some time after you turn fifteen. I know that Mark and Sharon are honest people, and I know they have not lied to you, but I still want you to know who your biological mother was. I don’t want you to wonder what I thought about you or why I made the decisions that I did. I hope that this is nothing more than a bit of personal history to you; I hope you understand that Sharon is far more your mother than I am and Mark is the father you would not have had if I had made my decision without you in mind. I just want you to know.

I suppose I should start light. I’ll lecture you later. If you don’t understand what I write, Shay, I just hope you keep this letter. You will understand when you’re older, at any rate. Fifteen may be too young to understand what I mean. I don’t know. I just can’t help but wonder what you’re like. I wonder how tall you are, what sports you like, what you like to read, whether you hate school or find it a tolerable evil, whether you are open or reserved… But my outline says this paragraph should be about me. It would make sense that you might want to know. My name is Charlotte Burke; I’m about five foot six with long brown hair and green eyes. I’m presently seventeen-years-old; I like the Red Sox, Charles Dickens, and the band Queen. I hope you know Queen. They’re actually from my dad’s era, but what’s not to like about men singing operatically in falsetto? Am I trying too hard? Most likely. I don’t really know what to say. I promise that there is more to me than eight facts, I just don’t know how to explain who I am. Your mother could probably tell you what I’m like better than I can. Perhaps she already has. I should just move on.

I suppose my intentions in writing this are partially selfish. I want you to know that your mother was not an irresponsible idiot, as many a complete stranger has called me in the past nine months. You could not understand the stigma of being pregnant at seventeen. I am grateful that you will never be called the names that I am, even if I had always hoped my first child would be a girl. There comes a point where I can no longer justify myself to every stranger who whispers in the street or every cashier who stares in the mall, but I want you to know, at least, that this was not my fault. I want you to know that there are things in your life beyond your control, and it is from those situations that you learn character. Or, at least, that’s what my mother--your grandmother--says. It’s true, but I’ll confess, I don’t feel like it very often. You are starting to kick again. Is that my cue to stop my angst-ridden wallowing? I’ll assume so.

My real purpose in writing, Shay, is to tell you that I do love you. These past nine months have taught me more about love than I ever thought possible, and I want you know a bit of what I’ve learned. Just a bit, I promise. I want you to know, first of all, that love is not a feeling. It is not a warm, fuzzy blanket draped over your shoulders. It can seem like that, I suppose, but love can also be very cold, very hard; it is a choice made because it’s in the best interest of someone else. I don’t know what to call the other alone, but it is secondary and liable to be wrong. I also want you to know that love is selfless. I realized that it must be when I was faced with the decision of what to do with you. A woman is not meant to be separated from her child. There is a part of me that hates your mother and father, and I know that I will only want to keep you for my own even more after you are born. That particular desire is not my love for you, it’s my excess of hormones. I know I would not be the best parent for you. What job could I hold to support the two of us? It would have been unfair to my parents to expect them to constantly baby-sit you. But that doesn’t change what I want. Oh, Shay, you will be told to follow your heart, and I hope you are able to, but your heart can be so wrong. Please be careful.

Tying into that, I also want you to know that sometimes what you want isn't what is best for you. I can see you rolling your eyes now. I won't tell you not to smoke or drink or take drugs, though I hope you don't. I know you have heard that before. What I want you know is that you can trust your mother and father. There's nothing wrong with not knowing what to do, but learn how to ask and take advice. On that note, though, I hope you can learn what advice not to take. I've had more advice than I care to remember in the past nine months. What to eat and not eat. Which articles of clothing best suit my current figure. Which side of my body I should lie on when I sleep. When it came to you, I had friends who recommended that I keep you and just bring you to school with me (banish the thought!), and I had friends, early on, who recommended abortion. Use your discretion, but don't be afraid to trust. Paradoxical, isn't it?

I read back over my letter, now, and wonder how strange this must be for you. You receive a missive from the mother that you’ve never met about all manner of boring topics and things you probably don’t understand. It’s almost like a poorly-written fantasy novel. If this is strange for you, just imagine how strange this is for me. I’m writing to a boy in the future who is two years younger than my present age. You can’t beat that for weird. I promise that I don’t have any special task for you, no deadly enemies or dangerous magical items. No inheritance, either, for that matter. Tough luck, I guess. I think I’m just amusing myself now. I had an outline of things I should tell you, but I don’t think I’ll bother with most of them.

But there is one more thing. And as you kick me again--you really are getting strong--I realize I'm not done. You are old enough to know that people are flawed, right? How many times have I sold you short in this letter? In many ways, Shay, I'm a coward. It’s terrible that it should be so hard; your parents are Christians. There. How pathetic was that? I can hardly even say it. Shay, I said that you will be told many things in your life by many different people. Some of the things they say will be true, and some of them will not. Sometimes people won’t even know they’re lying to you. Know this as truth: there is a God. I don't get Him. He doesn't make sense. I only know that humanity messed itself up and He devised a way to fix it. I just believe it. It fills in the blanks. Amo quod amor. I love because I am loved. A neat little phrase. I just hope that you take to time to understand Christianity as you grow up. Don’t take it at your parents’ word, and don’t discard it at your peers’ sign. You kick once more. I’ll stop preaching.

When I first thought about how I’d end this letter, I expected that I would be assaulted with everything I should have said. That isn’t the case, I’m glad to say. It’s scary to let your child out into the world, and it’s even more scary when you can’t be there with him, but I think you’ll be okay. I love you, Shay. Don’t ever doubt it.

Your mother,

Charlotte