Dear my supposed baby,
It’s your supposed mom. Hello. I write in loathe that probably I will never get to meet you and officially be a mother.
Not that you are a miscarriage or anything, but because at this point, I feel strongly that I would probably never fall in love so much again. So much that I would consider resurrecting my belief in real marriage, nor would I ever meet a man that could be your supposed dad.
No, supposed mommy does not sleep around. It’s not what she does, supposed sweetheart. She would like to marry for love and not for convenience. For it, I am sorry, supposed baby, that you would probably never exist.
I would love to be a mother, too. Feel the nausea of morning sickness, the frustration of food cravings in the wee hours of the night, the stress of not wanting to smell nor to see people just because I don’t want to, and squirm in pain of contraction. Add to that, that I want to feel the immense torture of labor. However, my supposed child, supposed mommy got her heart broken a million times that she does not want you to be broken, too.
But if ever you would come, and I still so hope you would, even with slightest twist in my diminishing faith, I would be ecstatic and I would name you the name I had thought of years ago.
But supposed baby, I would want a family for you. The usual mom plus dad equals baby equation and if circumstances turn out otherwise, know supposed mommy fell hard in love with your supposed daddy but he chose to flee from the man he ought to have become.
For now, supposed little one, just hang in there. If we never get to meet, please don’t take it against me. For if I would raise you, I would want you to love and not just to please yourself.
But if in all oddities you do have a power or a say to this, please, please, find your way into my tummy.
Your supposed mom