My love letter to the baby that we could have had...

Welcome to the latest Summer Soap — a daily fictional serial run over 12 parts. Called 12 Letters From Home, this story was written by Luisa Geisler, a Brazilian living in Cork city, and was chosen from work submitted by students of the MA in Creative Writing Programme at UCC. In this tenth episode, the mum-to- be ponders her future... and a worrying development
My love letter to the baby that we could have had...

LETTER 10

Dear Connor,

I need more time for this thing. These letters are an attempt to buy more of it. The thing you mentioned. “The getting married thing,” you called it.

As I mentioned in my last letter. I need more time to think about the proposal thing, the visa thing, the saving money thing. It would mean that I could stop going to the English classes for visa purposes. So we would save money. I could get another job.

For the cheap price of promising in front of a priest that you will love me forever thing. That thing.

Of course, we would need the legal equivalent. However, in Ireland, isn’t religion strong as the law? And I’m not even thinking about our Brazilian-Asian-Irish baby, about the solidity of a formally established family. It would be easier for him.

I’m thinking of a ‘him’, I’m not sure why. Is it weird that I’m already giving him a personality?

A young boy (‘lad’? Can I use it in this context?) running around, with maybe a Green Lantern T-shirt. He has Izzy on a leash and is laughing loudly. Almost yelling. Then he stumbles on himself, he still can’t walk properly, and falls to the ground.

“Merda,” he says.

He swears in Portuguese. And I have to yell.

“Where in the world did you get that word?,”

I yell in Portuguese. Because I will only talk to him in Portuguese so he can learn.

But he’s almost crying and I have to run to him. I can argue with him later. Maybe you can. Maybe you teach him about the local culture. Maybe he’ll trust you more, because you two and the rest of the world speak the same language. And I’ll be constantly the odd one out because I can’t change that.

Weirdly enough, I like Alice as a name. Ingrid. Names that work in both languages, not sounding foreign. Weirdly enough, more girls’ names work both in English and Portuguese than boys’ names. Lana. Caroline. Paula. Rita.

And maybe Alice/Ingrid/Lana/Caroline/Paula/Rita could also run in wearing a Green Lantern t-shirt, with Izzy on a leash, then she falls and swears. And the same scenario ensues.

Even though I’m scared of the idea of a child, the more I grow attached to it. Because my plan is still leaving.

This letter is a love letter to the baby we could have had. This scenario evaporates. We can’t get married and I can’t stay in Ireland. It’s just too much.

So why am I worried that I got this weird bleeding in my underwear today? Was that an accident? Maybe it’s just… nail polish? Some laundry problem I didn’t notice earlier? It was just once. But no pain, no nothing.

I shouldn’t bother messaging you about it. I should just send another Izzy picture. He’s asleep right now and despite having a memory full of pictures of him, I’m sure my phone (and yours) would benefit from another one.

I’m telling myself it’s normal. I’m telling myself that I shouldn’t even bother a doctor with that. Especially because it’s only been a couple weeks, maximum. Maybe it’s some sort of uterine leftover… right?

If this child would be a problem, why am I so anxious?

Júlia

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