The Diary I Cannot Let You Touch

There are certain places in Amsterdam that feel like yours too now, though I never spoke of them to you. Do you remember the smell of the blooming trees in Vondelpark? I took you there so many times, didn't I? We'd sit on the grass, and I'd tell you stories about the ducks in the pond, about the old man who played the accordion, about the ice cream stands in the summer. 

I wanted you to know this city, to feel its heartbeat, even if I couldn't show you everything.

And there's the little café on the corner of Prinsengracht. I remember the first time we sat there, the way you looked at the people passing by, so curious. I'd watch you, Bryan, and feel such a profound sense of peace. You were my sunshine, my hope, my everything. And I wanted to protect you from the shadows I carried, from the darkness that surrounded us.

The flight to the States... I still remember the feeling of the plane taking off, the way the world looked smaller and then larger all at once. I thought about the journey we were finally beginning, the life we might have built if circumstances had been different. I thought about showing you the places I loved, teaching you about the world, sharing my dreams and fears with you. But I also thought about the weight of the stories I couldn't tell, the pieces of my life I couldn't share with my own son. I raised you in New York city.

Bryan, I carry you in my heart, always. I carry the memory of your first steps, the sound of your laughter, the way your small hands held mine. I carry the regret of the things I didn't say, the secrets I kept from you. But I also carry the hope that one day, you will understand the depth of my love for you, the lengths I would have gone to just to be a part of your life. 

I love you, Bryan. More than you can possibly know.

Your mother

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