People often write letters to their newborn babies, knowing it will be years before they learn to read. More before they learn to understand. But you will probably never read, or understand. So I feel strange, writing this.

Maybe it would be more fruitful to write a letter to the embryo who makes it. The special one I hope is in there - the one who will taste, touch, and witness the double edges of my maternal love, cutting both ways. But then, that would feel strange, too. Because I'm not sure that one exists. Yes, I can feel him/her in my mind - like Santa Clause, or the Tooth Fairy. People keep assuring me s/he's real, but I'm too old to accept a few cake crumbs as proof of existence.

You, however, my precarious little embryo - I can believe in you. Your life, however brief and insignificant, is as solid as anything upon this earth. As solid as a mountain, or the wind, or the history of time itself.

Tonight, you are safe. You nestle amongst your siblings, more unique than snowflakes and twice as cold. Nothing is going to harm you tonight. But tomorrow, we will set in motion a series of events which will lead to your development or demise. I am afraid for you, because the odds are against you. But I will do it anyway.

I can't leave you in safety. It doesn't make sense. Without risk, there is no gain. Without peril, there is no possibility. I only wish the danger was smaller. I won't make it go away.

But don't think I do this without regret. My decision may be clear, but my thoughts are turbid with fear and melancholy. It's the right thing to do, but baby - I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for what I'll put you through.

I hope one day you'll understand.

XO.

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Update 26/6/06: Our little embryo survived the thaw and started to grow again. None were lost this time... none yet, at any rate. Now s/he goes into that black box of uncertainty - 16 days til we look for her on the other side.