Dear Sammy,

On Saturday, I turned 26, and Kaleigh graduated from University of South Carolina. I asked everyone that came for her graduation to avoid acknowledging my birthday, because I wanted the day to be about her. I still got a few gifts and kind words, though. I think the last time I truly celebrated my birthday was when I turned 24 in Summerville. You surprised me with that butter yellow and brown retro bike that had brakes on the handles; it was so cute and so me. We went to Hall’s Chophouse for dinner, and it is still the fanciest place I’ve ever eaten in my life. I remember us both being slightly uncomfortable, that we were not allowed to serve ourselves the sides of macaroni and cheese and brussel sprouts we’d ordered. I remember going into the bathroom and seeing little tiny cups for guests to mouthwash with and stealing a sleeve, and you telling me you’d also stolen a sleeve of them when we got into the car. We truly were as thick as thieves. We placed the little cups in the guest bathroom because they felt so fancy to us. I remember us both, tipsy and giggling as you took pictures of me, while I took pictures of the rainbow flowers you got me, placed perfectly into their wooden box. I remember being cuddled on the couch, gabbering to each other and trying to stay awake, not wanting the night to end.

That year, I had so much happiness – so much hope – for what we’d become as the time ticked forward. I thought certainly by 25, I would have been your wife, and we would have eloped at the courthouse, though not much would have changed besides my last name, and thankfully so. I can’t imagine having wanted much else to change. We lived, what I believed, was as perfect a life together as a couple possibly could. I know we had the occasional spat or argument, but it was nothing that a date night out together, ‘open kimono’ time, or a quick giggle wouldn’t fix.

I looked forward to my daily sprint to the back mudroom door when you arrived home from work, the highlight of my weekdays. I looked forward to our weekend projects – of mowing the lawn, of spackling (probably more than I should have), of donating our things to the thrift store, and of power washing. On the weekends, I loved the smell of warm laundry filling the house during the day, and a delicious meal one of us would have thoughtfully crafted filling the house by night, curling up on the couch together to watch a show or a movie, drinking a glass of wine or a hot cup of tea – depending on the kind of day it was. I miss sleepy Saturday mornings in bed, with the warm sunlight waking me up, calling for you, and hearing the patter of your feet as you ran to me, tangled up into the fluffy white comforter together, and commenced our morning nonsense chatter. I miss your patience with me as I slowly woke up, even though you’d been up for hours drinking your black coffee in the den. I loved our life together so dearly; the memories are still so precious to me and I cling to them desperately, wishing them back into an existence that will never come to fruition.

There’s so much to miss, I could spend my whole life craving what we had and ruminating over it, drinking up our memories like a dehydrated sponge. I have to remind myself of when things went wrong, how badly they went wrong, how they continued to go wrong – even though I thought we’d hit rock bottom already. And although it hurts, and although it was awful and still feels raw, I cannot for the life of me make the bad feel as though it outweighs the goodness that we had, the shared understanding of one another that we built. I wish I could be angry with you, I wish I could hold a grudge against you for the things you’ve said and done. But I think of your face, of your big brown eyes, and your sweet smile, and I just miss you, and I ache for knowing I will never hold your hands, never be held by you again. I just see a small Sammy who was truly hurt growing up, who never healed, and who is here for the first time like the rest of us are.

I hope you live a wonderful and fulfilling life. I hope you find joy in yourself, in your church, in the community, and even romantically. I hope you find in someone what I could not be for you – I hope you find whatever it is that I was not enough of, that I couldn’t give to you. I hope you love her, I hope you don’t hurt her, and I hope she doesn’t hurt you, either. I hope you learn her soul and I hope she learns yours in return. I hope she loves you and your family deeply, and I hope she loves you for your resilience – for all you’ve become despite growing up in an environment that was harsh and unloving. To have that much love in you, after all you have been through, is a miracle I hope many will get to experience. I love you, Beau. To the blackhole and back.