During our “Girls Only” walks, Mia opened up to me about things she felt she couldn’t share with her dad, and it made him envious. She felt like he didn’t truly understand her, while I did. This connection made sense to me; after all, I, too, grew up in a divorced family and understood the longing for a space of my own at my father’s place, just as she did. Mia craved her dad’s pride and love, a stark contrast to the certainty she felt about her mother’s affection. The insecurity that lingered in her relationship with her dad was something we both shared.
We made popsicles together, played games like Boggle, and on the night her friend didn’t come for a sleepover, I comforted Mia as she cried. At just 10 years old, she oscillated between childhood innocence and deeper, darker thoughts, and I embraced both sides of her, unlike her parents who lived with her. Years before I met Jake, I had envisioned a name for my future daughter. So when I discovered that he had a daughter named Mia, I felt a deeper bond with him. The similarity in our names struck me—my middle name “Sky” and hers “Mia” were almost intertwined. After spending time with her, I began to wonder if she was the girl I had imagined in my dreams.
During our time in Maine, we stayed at her grandparents’ house, where I found a quiet corner to write. Jake and I prepared her lunches, and I took her to the library and the candy store after school. We hiked through the woods, and she educated me about the wonders of moss and lichen. On days I didn’t pick her up, she would peek into my writing space to ask me about my progress. I often told her my favorite moment was “Mia O’Clock.”
I will always cherish that month spent together on a foggy island, a time when I felt the closest to having a family of my own. Jake had already established a family, having been married and having Mia with his ex-wife, but he was still searching for his career while I longed for the family he already had. When we departed the island, Mia stayed behind with her mother. Little did I know that Jake and I would soon part ways, and that I would never see Mia again.
People often fantasize about their exes returning with flowers and pleas for reconciliation. In my dreams, it’s Mia at my door, not with flowers, but carrying a suitcase as she asks if she can stay with me forever.
I think of Mia every day and miss her terribly. When Jake and I ended our relationship, Mia wanted to know if that meant our bond would also come to an end. Both Jake and I assured her it wouldn’t, but deep down, I knew that day would come. So, I quietly devised a plan to gradually distance myself from her, sending letters and small gifts throughout the year to help ease her transition. I didn’t want to let her go, but I also wished for her to be open to Jake’s future partners.
It’s been three years since our breakup, and my last message to Mia was two summers ago. I know she’s moved on and found happiness, while I’ve become just another girlfriend in her past. The strategy of weaning her off me may have worked for her, but it certainly didn’t for me. I still ache for her presence, and I wonder if that will ever fade.
I often worry that the most family-like experience I’ll ever have will be that month on the island with Mia and Jake. I wish I could return there, but it belongs to Jake, just as Mia does. And here I am, still searching.
For anyone interested in exploring the intricate journey of fertility and family, this blog offers insightful resources, including a guide on couples’ fertility journeys and information for those considering egg donation. Additionally, for comprehensive information on pregnancy, the medical newstoday site is an excellent reference.
Summary:
Emily reflects on her emotional connection with her boyfriend’s daughter, Mia, during their time together on a foggy island. Despite the bond they created, the eventual breakup with Mia’s father led to a painful separation. The article highlights themes of love, loss, and the longing for family, emphasizing how these relationships can deeply impact our lives.