Ten years. 

The last time I touched Zoey’s sweet little bunny feet. Looked into those piercing blue eyes. Held her tiny body against mine.

I could talk about the unfairness of knowing what it’s like to feel your child’s heart stop.

I could talk about the gaping hole in my heart. In my spirit.

But does anyone still want to hear any of that after ten years? Has it all been said? Should I not think like that—feel that way—anymore? 

Sometimes, I feel like I live in one of Marvel’s multiverses. I’m here, present with two beautiful little boys who are energetic, intelligent, funny, and alive. I take them swimming, feel their sweaty little heads on my arm when they fall asleep alongside me on the couch, and hear their laughter reverberate through me.

Then, I glimpse at another world. Where she is alive but has Trisomy 18. I quit my job to stay with her. We have constant appointments. I don’t drop her off at school because she doesn’t go to the building. But she’s alive.

I never linger there.

It’s the third universe that often captivates me—the one where she’s alive and well. I allow myself to imagine a much different life. She’s at the roller-skating party, lacing up her skates. Giggling with the other girls, all dressed up. Is she in 5th grade already? We’re coloring, baking, and shopping together. She’s tall enough to ride roller coasters and old enough for sleepovers at her friend’s house. It’s a beautiful world, but the boys don’t exist there. Well, they might exist—just not with me. In my mind, no scenario exists with all three kids together. 

A small hand tugs at my hand, snapping me back to this life. My boys are at the skating party, and one has fallen. My sweet boys with those big brown eyes—just as captivating as her blue eyes.But this life is full of playing in the dirt, riding tractors, and a weird fascination with farts (seriously—why are boys so fixated on this?)

So, here I am, in the multiverse, dreaming of a world where my daughter didn’t die but that I don’t have my boys and this one where she’s gone, but I have my boys. Obviously, I know which world is real. I’m firmly planted here and incredibly grateful for my children—all three of them. But I miss her—all the time, in a thousand tiny moments. And no matter how much time has passed, I’ll remember the moment she died. I’ll remember the moments she lived. And I’ll dream of holding her again.