I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve never kept a diary before.
Will says I should think of it less as a journal and more like a letter. He says there’s no way you won’t find it one day and read it.
I guess, in that case, I shouldn’t call him Will. I should call him your dad.
I can’t see my feet over my swollen belly, but it’s still hard to imagine one day you’ll be here soon. Our daughter.
Your dad thought it might help to talk to you. He puts his nose to my stomach and sings lullabies or gives art history lessons, but I feel silly whispering to my stretch marks. So I think I’ll do this instead. I’ll write about all the people you’ll meet once you get here. Peter and Whitney and Jamie. Annabel and Sofia. Mr. and Mrs. Rose. The incredible man who I call Will and you’ll call Dad. And I’ll write about the people you won’t. I’ll tell you all about this little world you’ll live in.
And then, one day, I’ll give this book to you. I’ll make coffee—please tell me you’ll drink it—and we’ll wander down the path to the pair of old metal chairs by the water. I’ll sit in Mom’s old spot, and you’ll sit in mine. We’ll watch the waves crash against the rocks, and I’ll share everything with you. It’ll be our place. You and me, at the lake.
