to James
3:33 p.m.

James,

I've known about since you were three days old. I have some pictures of you. You're such a cute little baby. You look just like Matthew.

I wish I was allowed to see you, or talk to you, or even for you to know I exist. I know you have a sister, and a family to grow up with and be happy, and that this is what everyone else thinks is the best way for you to live. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't live so far away, and in an entirely different culture.

As bad as it seems, I often wish your family didn't want you, and you could come here and live with me. I would want you.

I've thought about secretly contacting you when you're older. Online or something. Of going to where you are as a nanny or teaching English there. I wouldn't tell anyone who I was. I would just like to know you.

"Maybe you can see him if she goes to England for a visit"

That's how I was told I would almost certainly enver meet you for at least 16 years or so. Maybe never.

I'm always scared you're going to grow up, and find out, and hate me. And hate us. For keeping it a secret. I don't want that to happen, but it's not my decision, is it?

I just want you to know that I love you.

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