Forever ago you turned fifty five months old. I am late with this letter. There's a draft saved on my desktop computer, but I'm never in front of it, these days, so I'm scrambling to write this letter before you turn fifty six months old in two weeks.

This last month has challenged me in a way that I didn't see coming. Not now. Not this soon. You have said things that have hurt me at my core, the very essence of who I am. As a parent, I had assumed that my own values would transcend the placenta, nourish you from the inside out, and become a part of your DNA, as much as any other inheritable characteristic.

As it turns out, this is not how it works.

Then, by chance, I stumbled upon these words, and they hit just right:

"You can not save people, you can only love them." -Anaïs Nin

Perhaps my second mistake, after believing that you'd come hardwired to think like me, was that I was going to fix you, but that is not going to happen. Instead, I will love you. That I can do.

Happy Fifty Fifth Monthday.