Written by: Anne Selpan
She asked for you today.
And it felt like daggers.
She picked up her new clock and merely seconds after shouting how much she loved it, she mumbled your name.
You were the first person she wanted to show it to. But you will never see it.
My heart broke into a thousand tiny pieces as I fumbled through my response explaining where you were, and why we couldn’t show it to you.
She doesn’t know you live less than 20 minutes away. She doesn’t know you drive down the same roads she’s a passenger on. She knows you aren’t here, and I’m thankful she doesn’t know how close you actually are.
Because to a toddler, “away” can be 10 miles or a 1000 miles. It feels exactly the same. I’m glad she doesn’t know how painful the truth in proximity is.
I’m glad she doesn’t know you don’t ask about her. Every time she does something amazing (which is so very often), she doesn’t have to feel the burn in her chest like I do. The ache of knowing that you should know about it, you should ask about it, that you are an arms length away and you should be there to shout and cheer about it…
I cry over you. So does she.
She cries because she misses you.
I cry because you should miss her.
Anne Selpan is a very real woman, with a very fictitious name. She loves her family and she loves her writing, but because the two are not always harmonious she feels it’s best for both worlds to remain separated, thus writing under an alias. AnneSelpan@gmail.com