12/22/2025
I’m writing this by the glow of firelight. My tea has gone cold, abandoned on the side table, and I’m wearing my favorite sweater, the one I bought in New York on the morning of our embryo transfer. I’m so caught up in the silent conversation between your body and mine that I forget everything else, while outside the longest night of the year is draping its indigo blanket over the land.
You’re awake in there. I can feel you turning. That slow roll that takes my breath, the way you push out against my hand as if to say I’m here, are you paying attention?
I am. I am always paying attention. I want to remember every moment with you.
Sweet baby, I don’t always have the right words to explain this magic that brought you and your parents into my life. You are not mine, but you are with me in a way that defies easy language. You live inside my body and know my heartbeat better than you’ll ever know my face. When I laugh, you feel it. When I am anxious, you startle. And when I rest my hand over you, you press back and everything feels complete. And yet, this is temporary. You belong to someone else.
It’s at once the most complicated and most simple thing I have ever done.
For these months, I am the world you know, the temperature, the first voice, the walls that keep you safe while you become. I am the space between your parents’ longing and their arms. I know you won’t remember any of this, but I will. I will remember everything.
-Winter Solstice Letter, By Georgia Cranston .grae
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