With Love

To my darling, nameless girl - you won't remain nameless for long, I promise. I had planned to name you Harper, but after holding you, I knew it was wrong. I thought about Camille, or Diana, or Lyla, but none of them seemed right either. Give me a bit more time. I'll find something very soon. Happy birthday, sweet one. 

With love, 

Mom

Eleanor stares at the computer screen. The letter is the first of nine hundred and thirty-six emails. This is the first time she has opened any of them. It is daunting - reading through these one at a time. She's tempted to skip to the most recent - or shut the laptop altogether - but instead, she moves her mouse up and clicks the next one.

To my sweet firstborn - you may be wondering what this is. Well, this is your eighteenth birthday present! I made this email address specifically for you and plan to write to it whenever I can. It's like an electronic scrapbook! Look, I even put photos in! The first one is right after you were born. The second is you with grandpa, and the third is you just being cute. I have yet to pick out your name. Soon, though. It'll be perfect. 

With love,

Mom

The photos adorning the bottom of the screen are truly horrendous quality. Despite the pixelated and unfocused mess of colors, Eleanor still smiles, making out a young woman grinning deliriously into the camera with a tiny baby in her arms. The second one was a little clearer, an old man staring down at the baby with absolute wonder as he sat in a plastic hospital chair. And the third... The third is the clearest. The one clearly taken with the most care now that the chaos of afterbirth had been settled and all that was left was this tiny human studying its new world for the first time. 

Eleanor moves back out of the email, hovering over the third before scrolling up a bit higher. She isn't sure which this is - perhaps the ninetieth email written? Ninety-first? Eleanor clicks it, and is greeted by a photo of a toddler covered in green cake. 

I do not understand the fascination with frogs, was the first thing written, and Eleanor bursts into laughter. She had forgotten that the frogs were such a long phase of her life. I'm not sure I can ever fully forgive you for 'ribbet' being your first word instead of 'mama,' but I suppose watching you smash your face into a green cake as you screamed it repeatedly does soften the sting. We've set up an aquarium for your birthday and filled it with three frogs. You've stared at it for three hours now. Your grandfather says it isn't normal to stare at something so long, but I've been watching you watch the frogs for three hours now, and it doesn't feel odd. I guess that's just what happens when you love something. 

Happy birthday, little frog. 

With love, 

Mom

There are more. So many more. Eleanor reads one after another, torn between savoring each word and gluttonously stuffing every letter into her mind. She reads just one more - then two. Then eight. And suddenly, time zips by, and she is no longer in the toddler section but reading about a nine-year-old who wore superhero costumes and got stuck in trees. 

I won't lie to you, little frog. Things are getting harder around here. You don't seem to notice. I'm glad. You're always so ready to see the best in everything. You don't ask why we have less food. You just say it's yummy. You don't cry about not getting more toys. You just make your own out of paper and crayons. I wish I could give you so much more. I thought I could handle this by myself - but maybe I should give you to your grandfather for a little while. Just until I get back on my feet. I need a job, and you need someone who smiles at you more. 

If you don't understand now… please understand as you read this. I don't want to be away from you. I don't. It's just for a little while. I promise. 

The next letter is sent a month later.

No job yet! But soon. Your grandfather sends me pictures of you every day. I miss you.

And then a week later.

Nothing. Weren't they saying there was a worker shortage? It certainly doesn't feel like it…

And then a day. 

Nothing.

Another day.

Nothing. 

One more. 

Nothing.

And then… nothing. No letters came for weeks. Eleanor kneads a hand over her forehead, coaxing away the rising tension in her temples. By her feet, there is a low whimper, and she looks down to see a pair of labrador eyes peering up at her with a pitiful look. Smiling, she bends down and kisses his nose, grabbing a treat from a container and watching in wry amusement as the dog snatches it away - the sad moaning and groaning gone. 

Shaking her head, Eleanor opens the next email.

I've done something awful, little frog. I only write you this because you'll be eighteen when you read it, and you should know what kind of person your mother is. I was interviewing for a job - yes, another - and a woman came into the waiting room... Interviewing for the same job. I realized it was between her and me. She was a nice woman. She has a son. He's around your age and likes racecars, apparently. She said she would take him to a race down in Florida if she got the job.

She didn't get the job. I told her I was interviewing for something else and that she was in the wrong room - and when I went to interview, I told them she ran out.

It was a terrible thing to do. I won't do something that awful again. I promise. But what matters is you get to come home now. I'll see you soon, little frog. 

With love, 

Mom

From outside the window Eleanor is next to, there's laughter. Children are racing down the street, and a man yells at them to slow down as he chases after them. Eleanor grabs the curtain - thinking she might close it - before letting her hand fall away. 

The next letter is dated a few months later.

I stole something today. You would think a job would pay you enough for both rent and food, but it feels like we have to choose every week. It was just some frozen peas. I'm sure nobody noticed… but I've decided not to tell you that stealing is wrong. Sometimes, little frog, we need to do things to survive. It is only wrong if we take out of greed. Not out of need. 

And a few months later.

You said you hated me today. It's normal, I think. You're angry I left you and then took you away from your grandfather into an ugly apartment with stale food and one bed. I still kept your aquarium. There are four frogs in it now, but you never seem to look anymore. I still watch you, at least. I hate how fast you're growing up. I hate how it isn't fast enough for you. 

It'll get better. Soon. I'm going to try and get you something nice for your birthday. 

With love,

Mom

It gets harder to read. More stealing. More fighting. The letters get shorter. Angrier. Eleanor flinches when she opens the next one.

I broke your aquarium today. I'm not entirely sure what happened. They say thirteen-year-olds are hard, but I never expected a hard life on top of it. I was just… angry. Angry that you forgot about that school project, and it was so late, and that we didn't have the money to get what you needed, and then you got upset, and I got upset, and I am so, so, so sorry. I tried apologizing, but all you did was pick up the broken glass. 

I tried to help. You just got more upset, so I made dinner instead. It hurts, a little, seeing you cry as you try to put leaves and rocks into a shoebox for your frogs. I hadn't realized you still liked them. 

I'm sorry, Davina. We'll get this figured out. 

With love, 

Mom

A knock thuds through the house. Eleanor jumps, swearing loudly as she closes the laptop and gets up. Another knock comes - nudging the melancholy into irritation as she marches down the stairs, passing a large aquarium and framed photos to get to the front door. The dog barks belatedly but makes no move to get to the front door.

Eleanor glances out the window and sighs. "Dad," she says once she pulls open the door. The man turns, having been waving at some neighbors, before smiling at her. "What are you doing here?"

"And hello to you too, Eleanor," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. Eleanor scowls, and the wry attempt at humor fades. "It's Davina's eighteenth birthday," her father says, voice softening. "I didn't think you should be alone."

She had half a mind to slam the door in his face. 

Unfortunately, her father had already walked by her into the house. Eleanor closed the front door, letting her forehead rest against the wood for a moment before taking a deep breath and glancing over her shoulder to where her father was waiting for her. His hair had gotten whiter since she'd last seen him. The wrinkles on his face were deepening, but his health seemed strong, and his mind sound as he slipped into the kitchen.

"I was hoping to be alone today," Eleanor admits, running a finger over the granite countertops. Her father ignores the comment, flipping on the espresso machine and grabbing two mugs. "Dad."

"To do what? Read emails?" Eleanor didn't answer. Someone had to read them, she thought. "You shouldn't do that to yourself." 

"They're memories." Her voice grows a little distant as she says the words, sitting on one of the counter stools. She stares at the frog mug her father had taken out and then pinches the bridge of her nose. "Two years," she says, a little numbly. There is a whirring from the espresso machine. "I just needed two more years, and she could have had all of this."

"...an espresso machine?" her father asks dryly, but Eleanor is positive he knows what she means.

"I live in a two-story house with three televisions, wood flooring, and a backyard that I don't know what to do with." Her father hands her a mug, steam rising from the cup. Eleanor just stares at it. "And I still can't seem to burn through this money."

"You should be proud of yourself, El. You pulled yourself up-"

"I wasn't able to give her any of this," Eleanor says. She's holding the espresso but not drinking it, instead using the mug to keep her hands warm, praying the glass burns her as she clenches it tighter. "I think every day of things I wanted her to have. Food, her own bed, private school, nice clothes…" she trails off and forces herself to try and at least taste the drink her father had made her. 

"You were a good mother, Eleanor." Her father places his own mug to the side to look at her. "Davina loved you very much."

Outliving your child leaves one contemplative of the what-ifs. So often, you wonder what kind of person they would have turned into if they had lived long enough. Then there were other times when you dared to wonder what they might think of you if they lived long enough to see how you've changed. 

"I told her in those emails that I wanted to be honest with her about who I was… but I didn't put even half of the truth in there," Eleanor admits. There's a clink as she puts her cup down. "I mugged a woman in the park once to get her a birthday present. When she was living with you, I got arrested. Twice. I never even mentioned her father," she breathes out and places her thumbs to her forehead. 

A silence settles over them. It was strange - to read a version of herself that only Davina knew and that time had altered. It felt so far removed from who and what she was now… Like her daughter had perhaps not even known her at all.

Her father reached over, lightly pulling her hand away from her face. Eleanor blinks back the tears, taking a slow breath. 

"I could have gotten her a car with all the money I have now," she murmurs, and her father sighs, squeezing her hand tightly. "A safe one. Then she wouldn't have ridden with Carly that day, or-" 

Her eyes drift to three sealed bottles of wine. They were gifted to her over the holidays from work or as a housewarming gift from strangers who were unaware of her distaste for drinking. A newer development, spurred by the drunk driver who had hit her daughter and her friend. He was alive somewhere. In some jail Eleanor didn't bother to look up even though she had been told several times. She didn't care.

"I'm going to read," she decides, slipping from her father's grasp. She got up, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the counter as she grabbed her laptop from upstairs. This time, she takes it to the living room, curling up on the couch. She can hear her father still in the kitchen but ignores him as she clicks the next email.

Davina - We tried pecan pie today. It's bizarre to live your entire life not realizing you've missed out on something. I sometimes get stressed, thinking that you might miss out on things. I thought the pie was delicious. You spat it right out. 

I don't know what about this makes me so happy, but it feels important to tell you about it.

With love, 

Mom

If Eleanor still drank, she would have cracked open the wine at that one. How was this her? It had been strange to start reading the first couple of emails - the voice of a teenage girl excited to be a mother. Someone bright and loving and warm. Eleanor doesn't feel like any of those things now… but she also doesn't feel like a desperate, angry adult scraping by each day. 

She wasn't sure what this era was. Change was peculiar in that if it was slow enough, then you never got to mourn what once was. 

Hello again, little frog! Happy birthday! I can't believe you're sixteen already - which sounds cliché, but I mean that.

You're spending the day with Carly, but we're going to the movies when you get back. I have some exciting news that I'll tell you tomorrow… I got a new job! Something fancy and corporate. I'll tell you more about it later, but I'm thinking we celebrate with a nice dinner. 

With love,

Mom 

This was where the notes changed. Again. This is when Eleanor changed. Again. The mouse hovered over the remaining fifty emails. She remembers each of them - she had broken her computer once after pressing send. 

There's no use reading them now. Eleanor doesn't want to read her grief - the begging and apologies and mourning to a cave with no echo. Shaking her head, she pulled the mouse away, figuring she's had enough for today. 

Then her eye caught something to the left of the inbox. The number of remaining unread emails sat bolded near the top, but underneath was the word 'Drafts' with a 'one' beside it. Eleanor frowns, trying to remember if she has ever logged into this account before. She clicks it twice, so the email pops up in a new window. 

Surprise, the first line read. Tis I! Allow me to explain. I was looking for my birth certificate to sign up for driver's ed in your desk, and I found this super old-looking sticky note in a plastic bag with login information. I decided to bring out my detective skills - and I found this! Please don't be mad. I know this is supposed to be for my eighteenth birthday, but I've already read through most of these. I couldn't help it. I miss you sometimes. I get why you have to work all the time, but it feels like we can go for days without talking. Maybe I'll get a job now that I'm sixteen, so we won't have to worry about bills so much. 

Either way, I marked all of these as unread again. That way, when I open this up in front of you, you won't suspect a thing (we both know you'll be looking over my shoulder as I log in). But when the time is right, I'll send this, and you'll be like, 'wow, Davina's so smart and like a super secret spy.' 

Or maybe at eighteen, I'll be super mature and serious and delete this because I'll be an 'adult.' Who knows? I hope I'm not too different from how I am now. You once told me that sometimes it's hard to like yourself, and it takes work for everyone to get there. There are time it feels like you have to start that work over when you change. 

I hope you know I loved you the entire time we grew up together. I know I haven't always been an easy child. I did my best, and I know you did too. Hopefully, we'll help each other work out how to love ourselves for whoever we are in the future too. 

Thank you for the birthday present, mom. And the eighteen years. 

With love,

Davina