The journal came in the mail on the first day of the fifth month of her pregnancy. Excited was an understatement. It was wedged on the bottom of a small cardboard box she had to carefully cut open with trembling hands, full of anticipation for what she was receiving and what she was about to give. In between two layers of unnecessary bubble wrap, there it lay-- an unbound book, with a cardboard cover and lined pages on the inside. Nothing truly remarkable about the black spiral notebook, nothing at all, except for the unassuming words on the front: A Letter To My Baby. She knew it sounded silly and foolish, that she seemed to be jumping ahead of the gun, but she found solace in the idea. And so she smiled.

January 5th:
Dear Fetus,
We don’t even know your gender yet. We told the doctor we didn’t want to know. Your dad and I, that’s the we. I love him and you so, so much. With you, it’s remarkable, to see my stomach grow bigger and bigger every single day as you grow. I can’t really fathom it; that it’s a baby inside of me. A living creature which is totally dependent on me. Me. My whole family calls me clumsy and ungraceful, misguided and distasteful. I surely hope that all washes away when you’re born, and when those so-called ‘mommy instincts’ kick in. I can’t drop you on the head, can I? Goodbye for now, darling, until next time.
Much love,
Your smiling mother

February 6th:
Dear Fetus,
I’ve written in here every day for a whole month. You’re going to be born soon, very soon. Not too soon, but soon enough. Three months left to go. You kick hard and people keep touching my stomach. Every day, another person, even if they’ve felt you kick what feels like a thousand times, decides that a rub on my belly is what I want, or more specifically, what I need. I don’t want to be touched in this pregnancy, and it doesn’t matter if they’re a young one or an ancient and wizened old man. I would simply like to eat fried pickles and curl up in a ball and wear sweaters. Is that too much to ask?
Love,
Your very excited and exasperated mother

March 7th:

Dear Baby (I can’t even call you fetus anymore),
Two months of writing and only two more months of anticipation. Commitment is not my forte, but here we are. Non-stop writing in this journal, documenting my experiences, helping you understand the world as we know it. Surprisingly, not that many people know about my writing to you and I’m amazed. You’d think more would have figured it out, but that’s not important. Apparently, your hearing is fully formed, and now you respond to light, sound, action, stuff like that. Should I read to you? I think I’ll read to you. Reading is so important. Remember that, little one. Reading can bring you knowledge.
Lots of love,
Your mother-to-be
P.S.: Today, the doctor told me that if you were born right now you could survive!

April 21st:
Dear Fetus (because that’s all that you are),
Eight months and two weeks of pregnancy. Not much significant difference than seven months pregnant. Your brain is supposed to be developing, though. So is your ability to see and hear. It’s your little size that’s amazing to me, you started off so small. You stopped growing really fast. They don’t know why. They said it wasn’t my fault. They said that this happens all the time, that I shouldn’t be so scared. You were supposed to be born. You were supposed to be named Gwen or Steven. You should have lived, and I’m so sorry that you didn’t. I love you.

May 2nd
Dear Almost-Baby,
On the day you were supposed to be born, there are no words to describe how much I miss you, how much I need you, how much I wish that this was not the truth. Goodbye, forever. Why would I ever need to write my dead baby? There’s no use. Goodbye, my darling. I try to think that writing every day, for three months, would be better than just one day of holding you in my arms. It isn’t. I miss you. I love you. You’re my child, so why are you dead? Why are you gone before me? Come back. I don’t smile anymore. Come back to me. I need you.
You were supposed to be a girl.