I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a legacy. But I’m surprised to find that I don’t care about that anymore. A legacy means nothing. It’s a life that matters. And I know, without a doubt, that we helped to give those women lives they could own, that they could celebrate. It fills my heart, even now.

I can’t imagine that, even in heaven—if there is such a place—I won’t feel the pain of losing Parker, of being away from my beloved husband. I worry about leaving him behind, about what he will do. I worry that I have ruined his life, even though he says that I have made it. I feel deep anguish and guilt about the pain I have caused him, about the tasks that he has had to perform these past few months. It terrifies me to know that the worst is yet to come, the lifting and feeding and bathing will give way to much worse. And now I can only pray that it’s fast.

I can’t imagine that, even so far away, I won’t pine for the babies we never got to have, those embryos I had to leave behind, put back into that cold and impersonal freezer. A mother should never have to say goodbye to her children—even the ones that might never be.

I know that being with my own mother there in the great beyond will be a comfort. It soothes me as I begin a slow walk down a narrow corridor that I hope is leading somewhere even more glorious than I can imagine. It helps me push away the fear that there is nothing waiting for me on the other side, only darkness.

When I was growing up, when I would get in bed at night, my mind would often race with scary scenarios or bad dreams. My mother would tell me to think happy thoughts, to fill my head with chocolate drops and peppermints, ballet slippers and tutus. Now I fill my mind with my first wedding dance with Parker, the way the lights twinkled around us, the way he held me so close, how I knew I would always be safe in his arms. Even now, I may be leaving, but I am still safe in his arms.

I don’t know if Parker will ever read my journals, but I suspect he will. I would. So, Parker, if you are reading this, please know that leaving you is the worst thing I have ever faced. Worse than losing my mother, worse than dying myself.

I think you might find in these pages some parts of myself that I am ashamed of, some parts that, if I’m honest, I’d rather you never knew. For those parts, I am sorry, my love. I truly am. But please know that nothing in these pages changes the absolute certainty in my heart that you were my only one.

I am writing you a letter, and I will leave it with your mom, who, as you know, I loved almost as if she were my own.