My Dearest Elijah,
From the very first moment I discovered you were coming into our lives, my heart was overflowing with joy. It was New Year’s Eve in 2013 when we found out I was pregnant with you—what a miraculous gift to begin the year with. In that instant, everything in me changed. There was an overwhelming sense of love, hope, and dreams yet to be written. You were wanted beyond measure—even before we knew your name, even before we felt your little kicks, you were cherished. I would whisper to myself, Soon I’ll hold you in my arms. And oh, how deeply I longed for that moment.
Those months of anticipation were filled with excitement. We picked out every little thing for you—tiny outfits, soft blankets, the sweetest little booties that looked far too precious for real feet. I imagined your first smile, your first laugh, your curious eyes meeting mine for the first time. Every detail seemed too perfect in my head, as if nothing could ever go wrong. My pregnancy with you was mostly smooth, though I carried the quiet burden of gestational diabetes. I never thought it would be a big deal; I thought we were okay, blissfully unaware of the road that awaited us.
I loved you from the very first flicker of your heartbeat on that ultrasound screen—before I even felt you move. I loved you before I saw your tiny body grow inside me. You were my miracle.
When you were finally born, the world felt complete—until it didn’t. You came into the world small but seemingly healthy, weighing 5 pounds 6 ounces, and at first, everything seemed perfect. Yet under the surface of that perfect moment, something was quietly wrong. Your skin had a slight blue tint that no one could fully explain, and even the nurses seemed unsure. Deep inside, I felt it—the instinct every mother has—but I told myself it was just nerves. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. But your cries that night, those deep, unsettled cries that seemed to come from your tiny, struggling chest, told me differently.
In those first hours with you, I felt helpless. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t soothe you. You struggled to feed. You fought to stay awake. You were lethargic in a way no newborn should ever be. I was exhausted, yes—exhausted beyond belief—but even more than that, I was scared. I watched your little chest rise and fall with such effort, and every breath you took felt like a battle. My heart ached for you, and yet I felt so powerless. I kept thinking it was just the overwhelming adjustment to life outside the womb, that it would all settle in time—but it didn’t.
When we were discharged from the hospital, I thought things might improve. I watched you closely, clinging to every moment, praying that it would get easier. But instead, your color faded. You seemed heavier, yet weaker. You weren’t feeding well. You weren’t gaining weight. And slowly, that fear in the pit of my stomach grew into something I could no longer ignore. Something in me whispered, This isn’t right. I took you back to the doctor, clutching you tightly, desperate for answers I feared I already knew.
That day changed everything.
The doctor looked at you with a seriousness I’ll never forget. Within moments, we were rushed to a treatment room. It was chaotic—doctors and nurses moving swiftly around us, their voices calm but urgent. Before I could fully take it in, you were being transferred for tests. In that frenzy of white coats and blinking monitors, I watched you lie there, fragile and small, and I felt my world stop. That night, I learned you had been born with Tetralogy of Fallot, a congenital heart defect that disrupted the very rhythm of your tiny heart. You were in heart failure. You needed help—urgent, life-saving help.
I remember the shock that froze me to the core. I had been told throughout my pregnancy that everything was fine. How could this happen? How could something so serious be hidden for so long? My brain hurt with the questions, and my heart—my heart hurt even more. I held you as doctors hurried to place you in an oxygen box, trying to stabilize your body. It felt unreal. I kept thinking, This isn’t my child’s story. This can’t be real. But as I stood there, watching them fight for your life, I realized how real it was—and how strong you already were.
They explained that you would need open-heart surgery, a procedure no parent ever wants to hear their newborn must endure. First came a balloon septostomy, a temporary measure to help keep you alive while we waited for surgery. You were only weeks old—weeks—and already you were facing the toughest battle of your life. The day of your surgery was the hardest day I’ve ever lived. I held you close, kissed your tiny forehead, and whispered every prayer I knew, then handed you over to the surgeons with trembling hands, unsure whether I’d see you alive again.
The hours felt like days. Time dragged in a way I didn’t know was possible. My thoughts raced between fear and disbelief. But then the call came: The surgery was a success. When they told us, tears flowed uncontrollably—relief, gratitude, joy, fear, all wrapped into one. I remember seeing you in the ICU, wires and tubes attached, your small chest rising and falling with effort, yet you were still fighting.
You showed strength from that first moment on the operating table, and you continued to show it every single day afterward. When they told us you might need more time in the hospital, we didn’t despair—we stayed. Every milestone you hit was a victory: gaining weight, breathing easier, growing stronger. I watched you transform from a fragile baby in a hospital bed to a robust, curious toddler who explores this world with wide-eyed wonder.
Today, you are two years old.
You are happy. You are strong. You are full of life.
You fill our home with laughter and discovery. Those early fears have transformed into pride and awe. The scars on your small chest are silent testimonies of battles fought and won. Even now, when I catch you mid-giggle or see you reach for my hand, I am overwhelmed with gratitude that you are here, thriving.
I look at you and see more than just the boy you are today. I see a warrior—a heart warrior. You fought battles no one expected so early in life. You faced challenges that would intimidate adults, yet you pressed on without fear. You showed resilience that defies your age and courage that inspires everyone who knows your story.
Looking back, I realize how blessed we were that your condition was discovered early, that dedicated doctors and nurses surrounded you with care, and that you had the strength to endure. Without those critical moments of intervention, the story might have been very different. But here you are—proof that miracles do exist, that love sustains us even in the darkest hours, and that hope can be found in the most unexpected places.
You have taught me lessons I never knew I needed to learn: how to be brave when fear threatens to take over; how to hold onto hope when hope feels impossible; how to cherish every breath, every smile, every ordinary day.
My beloved Elijah, there is no limit to what you can achieve. You have already overcome so much, and I know with every fiber of my being that your future holds triumphs beyond imagination. Your strength will carry you through whatever life brings, and I will always be here—your biggest cheerleader, your unwavering support, your loving mother.
Thank you for being my heart warrior. Thank you for showing us what true courage looks like. Thank you for blessing our lives in more ways than I could ever put into words.
I love you with every beat of my heart—and I always will.
With all my love,
Mummy