She had a party. There were balloons and cake, presents and friends, and smiles were in high supply. We spoiled her rotten with attention and told her how much we loved her every time she was near. Her face was covered in pizza sauce. I gladly kissed her.

Not all days are certain. We will never be clear of the helpless feeling of chance or the gamble of faith. I see Gastroschisis at all hours of the day, whether she hasn't had a bowel movement in some time, or is simply fussy. I worry if she isn't eating or sleeping enough, if the seat belt is too tight on her stomach, and for no reason at all. I worry that she doesn't know how much I love her. I tell myself everything is going to be alright.

My mom passed away two months ago. I visited her in a nursing home a few days before she did. She rarely spoke. Her body barely moved. I told her what she needed to hear, what I needed to say, and it was goodbye. It is a word of closure so often used. I am leaving for work. I am hanging up the telephone. It is an ending. Beautiful Emma, this is not goodbye.