Page 22 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
Room service arrived at 8:00 a.m. as I'd ordered for the last two mornings. I've always been an early riser, and it seems that even vacation can't change that. I wasn't hungry, but I knew I needed something, or I'd be hangry before 10—while I ordered more than I'd ever eat for just breakfast, the tray was filled with things I could pick at through the morning.
I squinted, staring into the almost blinding ocean. The waves crashed in patterns that looked too beautiful to be real. I sat in the lounge chair off to the side of the wide balcony. My legs were pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around my shins, chin resting on my knees. Escaping from my life had felt necessary, but my time here had felt different than I'd imagined.
I'd come here for freedom—for space.
Maybe naive of me, but I didn't expect the grief to follow me here. It pressed in like a second skin, even as I tried to peel it away with ocean views and room service mimosas. One moment I'd feel weightless, almost free—then suddenly crushed by what I'd lost over the years. Part of me wanted to call him. Part of me wanted to throw my phone into the ocean.
There's something about turning forty that makes you take stock.
I picked up the hotel stationery, half as a distraction, half on instinct. This was no Hilton notepad. This was thick, creamy, embossed stationery with the hotel's name in faint gold. I slidmy fingers over the embossed logo, and I swear it was like real gold. Couldn't be, though—right?
Looking for a pen, I found one tucked in the leather folder next to the room service menu. The weight of it surprised me—solid metal that pressed into my palm with unexpected gravity, as though even this small hotel amenity not only understood the heaviness I carried inside, but also knew how to help me let it out.
I went back to my seat on the balcony, and I started writing.
I didn’t write to Caden. It was a letter to my sister. Or to friends. Not to anyone in my life.
To me.
This would be a letter to myself—or the woman I hope I still am in ten years. Or maybe the woman I'll finally become.
Letter to Myself, July 2025 – Miami
Dear Me—the me of 2035 (as long as the world is still turning...)
If you're reading this, and I hope you are reading it, I pray you're somewhere warm again. Maybe your hair is a little longer. Maybe it’s not (though please don’t have given in and cut it like your mother did once she passed the age of 45).
Maybe you finally learned to stop apologizing for taking up space in this world—for being you.
I'm writing this from the balcony of my hotel suite where I’ve watched countless turquoise waves crash against the white sand so far below. The humidityand heat cover me like a blanket and even this paper dampens from it.
There’s a breeze blowing through, carrying the scent of coconut sunscreen mingling with the citrus from my untouched mimosa. Somewhere down the beach, I can hear Latin music beating a rhythm making my foot tap.
I'm alone. It's my fortieth birthday weekend, and I left home with nothing but a letter to Caden. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I just booked a flight, the hotel suite, and flew away.
Think back to this time and remember what it felt like—the need to belong to yourself for the first time in a long time.
You know what happened this week. There's no way you've forgotten. You probably still flinch when you think of the purse—maybe Macy even still has it. I imagine you haven't forgotten how quietly your heart cracked when you realized he gave it away without a thought to you or your feelings.
Maybe by now you've forgiven him. Or maybe not—maybe it was the last straw for you two. I don't know—only you do.
But this letter isn't about the purse. Or even about him.
This is about you.
You've been through so much. Sometimes I wonder how you’ve carried it all and still managed to smile at the sunrise.
You and Maliyah lost your parents far too young—two girls left alone in their twenties to make a way in life. Mom with her warm heart, who would sing "la-la-love you" like a lullaby and hold you close when you were hurting. Dad with his booming voice and Sunday breakfasts—always quick with an off-key song.
They taught you both that love was something given, not earned. They taught you that your strength came from within and from above. Somewhere along the line, you forgot that, though—working to earn love and affection.
Maybe by now you've finally remembered you were always enough. Always.
Then the infertility. That broke something in you that, as of today, you've been unable to glue back together—the pieces are sometimes unrecognizable. It felt like a betrayal—by your own body. The nights you cried after every test. Every appointment. Every month that passed.
All you've ever dreamed of was being a mother, being able to share the joy and love your own mother had surrounded you with. You’ve envisioned a life for yourself surrounded by yours and Caden’s children. And after years, that vision still remains untouchable.
But you need to know you are not defined by the accumulation of failed IVF attempts. And you are not less than just because you haven't been able to have a baby—yet. I know you've tried to stand beside and with Macy, to be something soft and steady forher, but she has her own mom and you’ve always had to be careful with that relationship.
