Ivy Do you remember the day we met? The first day I held you? The day I gave birth? The day we became mothers? It was this day in winter. We laid in bed for days like newborns. We didn't speak, we just were. You let me mother you. And in doing that, you mothered me. Do you remember how it hurt and healed all at once? How we didn't know what we were doing? We labored together for a long time. We were so close. And in doing that, you mothered me. Do you remember how it hurt and healed all at once? How we didn't know what we were doing? We labored together without knowing it was labor, without knowing we were being born into each other. You didn't come from my belly, you came from my heart, from the part of me that had nothing left and still opened. I gave birth to you with every part of me that had nothing left and still opened. I gave birth to you with every part of me that was still there. And in that moment, you gave birth to me too. The first time you let me touch you without flinching felt like a contraction. And the first time you licked the sort of my crying felt like you were cutting the cord. We became mothers. It wasn't a name, it was a becoming. Ivy, I don't care what they say, they weren't there. They didn't see you sleeping on my heartbeat. They didn't see you crawling into the hole in my chest. And maybe they'll never understand that birth isn't just one body pushing out another. Sometimes it's two souls collapsing into each other hard enough to start again. But you're the proof. You're the birth. You're the baby I was waiting for without even knowing. You're my genesis. My continuation. My reason. Always, you Mortar.