One day, my sweet boy, I want you to know how deeply you were hoped for by your parents who love you.

Before you were here, every month began the same way. We carried a little spark of hope together, but we tried to keep it small, protected. We told each other not to overthink, not to read too much into every feeling or sign. And yet, quietly, we counted the days. We wondered if my body was finally ready for you, and we imagined a future that felt fragile because we wanted it so badly.

Then came the waiting.

Those days stretched endlessly. Your father would check in on me, gently asking how I felt, reminding me to rest, to breathe. I noticed everything. The tiredness, the emotions that came too easily and sometimes I scolded myself for hoping so strongly. Your father understood. He had felt the disappointment too, even when he tried to stay strong for both of us.

When my period didn’t come for two months, relief and fear showed up together.

We didn’t celebrate. Instead, we looked at each other quietly, full of questions. Could this really be it? Should we believe yet? My body felt unfamiliar. Food tasted strange, I craved things I never used to, and I felt uneasy without knowing why. Your father noticed before I even said anything. He held my hand, calm and steady, as if he already knew something important was happening.

Taking the test was terrifying.

My hands shook as your father stood beside me, just as nervous, just as hopeful. We prepared ourselves for disappointment together. When the result appeared, joy didn’t come loudly. It came softly. We smiled, and then almost immediately, we worried. Is it real? Will it last? Your father wrapped his arms around me, and for a brief moment, we allowed ourselves to believe.

We went to the hospital to confirm it, and that was when we found out you were already eight weeks old.

The days that followed were filled with quiet care.
Your father watched over me closely, reminding me to eat, to rest, to slow down. We worried about every ache and every strange feeling. We held our breath through each day, loving you and protecting you in the only ways we knew how, even before we could see you.

Then came the scan.

In that dim room, your father squeezed my hand while we waited. The silence felt heavy, filled with all our hopes and fears. Our hearts raced as we prepared ourselves for anything, even as we silently prayed for good news.

And then we heard it.

Your heartbeat.

Fast. Strong. Steady.

In that moment, everything changed. Tears came from relief, from gratitude, from finally letting go of months of worry. Fear loosened its grip, and all the waiting and quiet prayers suddenly made sense.

From that moment on, you were no longer just a hope we carried.

You were our miracle – alive, beating, and real.

And now, when we look at you, we know that every moment of waiting, every worry, and every tear led us to you. You were created with love, patience, and so much hope. We wish to let you know that we love you more than anything in the world. 💙