By: Emma Carter
Date: December 31, 2017
During my college years, I met James through our mutual friends. We didn’t dive into romance right away; instead, we formed a casual friendship, gradually growing closer over time. Years later, at our friends’ wedding, we finally fell in love—effortlessly, despite the distance that separated us.
Our love story is filled with sweetness and adventure, characterized by long conversations, heartfelt letters, and trips around the globe. For our second date, James whisked me away to Paris, where he confessed his love in his kitchen, next to the trash can, unable to wait any longer. He organized thoughtful outings to theaters and restaurants he knew I would cherish. He loved me deeply, but his most profound love was reserved for our daughter.
When we were 20 weeks pregnant with our second child, James and I sat together in the ultrasound room, excited to catch a glimpse of our baby. We declined to find out the sex, eager to embrace the joy of welcoming this new life. After the appointment, I planned to pick up our son from my parents’ house, while James intended to head back to work.
That day, he never returned to work. Instead, we received devastating news. Our daughter’s heart was irreparably damaged, and we faced unimaginable decisions.
“Whatever happens, we must communicate openly,” James said that evening as we sat in shock on the couch, his gaze steady despite my tear-streaked face. How did he instinctively know what we needed? How could he understand the best way to love our child before she even arrived?
After we made our decisions, our daughter, Lily, was born. We anticipated her passing, but she surprised us by arriving crying, and she was even slightly pink. When they placed her in James’s arms, I witnessed a love in his eyes that I knew would never be matched in our relationship. He held her first, and then he passed her to me, already willing to let her go, something I struggled to do.
Lily defied all expectations. She thrived, nursed, laughed, and lived, even as we knew her time was limited. James was a constant presence, holding her whenever possible, yet never taking her from me. He loved her with open arms when I couldn’t bear to let her go. Over time, she grew to prefer my embrace, but he never complained.
James managed to sneak in walks with her in the stroller and took her on drives around the neighborhood to help her sleep. During the early hours, he would take her to see the mountains, creating precious memories they shared, even though Lily never experienced hiking or camping like other kids. Every weekend morning, he would drive them both to enjoy the sunrise over the peaks. He never voiced his exhaustion.
Eventually, work called him back, and he loved her from a distance, fully aware of her fragile condition. He faced each day with courage, never expressing frustration over the circumstances.
We lost her. I was the last to hold Lily. James rushed from work to find her on the emergency room bed, and even then, he never complained. He celebrated her existence, urged me to grieve freely, and spent months in his office, reading our eulogy for her behind closed doors. He never complained.
I understood his yearning to hold Lily more. I know his heart still aches for her, and for a long time, I believed that his pain stemmed from how little she was in his arms while she was alive. Months after her passing, I confessed my regrets over her reluctance to be held by him. His response was simple: “She was where she needed to be.”
Lily will always be his greatest love.
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In summary, our journey through love and loss has taught me that while my partner may love me deeply, his greatest love is reserved for our daughter, whose brief life brought profound meaning to our existence.