Alcohol You Later (72)

“I’ve been holding onto this until after the wedding, even though you’ve been like a mother to those kids for months now.” She smiles, her eyes welling with tears as she hands me an envelope addressed, “To the woman who will raise my children.”

“From Ellie?” My throat dries up.

Edna nods. “I’m not sure what it says. She asked me to hold on to it until Nick got married, and if I thought she was good enough to be a mother to her kids, to pass this note along.” A tear drips down her cheek. “You got my seal of approval, darling.”

Goose bumps coat my skin as I break the seal. “Should I read it out loud?”

“Nah.” Edna shakes her head. “I’m gonna leave this between you and my Ellie. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” On her way out, she gives my shoulder a tender squeeze.

I’m shaking as I unfold the stationary. It’s gold foiled with the same dragonfly embellishment as the letter she left for Nick with Stacy.

With tears streaming down my face, I read the selfless words left for me from a dying mother.



To the woman who will raise my children,



Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, for loving my babies. For being there for them when I cannot. I realize it requires a special person to take on such a huge responsibility. To love someone else’s flesh and blood as your own. You’ve accepted not one but two children into your marriage. That can’t have been easy. And if my mother has passed this along, it means you’ve taken on that role freely and fully and have earned the right to the title of mother. Please take it. Embrace it.

I want you to know that I’ve thought long and hard about this. As I sit on my death bed, I don’t have the luxury to be selfish or petty. All I can think about is how I can give my children the best possible future, knowing I won’t be here to take part in it.

I’ve thought of you often, though we’ve never met. I think of you when I give them their baths, change their diapers, and rock them to sleep. I thought of you when I watched them open their gifts this past Christmas, knowing it would be my last.

And I wondered how it would feel to be in your position. To love and nurture and care for these children, all the while trying to be respectful to my memory.

I thought of how my children would feel growing up with a ghost for a mother, and that pains me more than you could ever realize. I want them to know about me. I don’t want them to forget, though I know they will. They’re too young to remember. And so, I ask that you show them my pictures and videos and give them my cards on their birthdays, so there will be no question in their minds that they were my entire world for the short time they were in it.

But life is for the living, and I don’t want them to go through it without ever truly experiencing a mother’s love. I want them to be able to refer to someone who isn’t cold in the ground as Mom.

Of course, you don’t need my permission. But I’ve considered how I’d feel if the roles were reversed. I can see myself trying to honor their late mother. And I want you to know that the best way you can honor me is to fully immerse yourself into that role.

Your future children will be their siblings, and I don’t want there to be a difference between them.

You’ll tuck them in. Take them to their doctor’s appointments. Teach them to drive. And soothe their broken hearts.

Lord knows, I’d give literally anything to be in your shoes. But that’s not possible. So, here we are, two women who will never meet, sharing the most precious gift of all—our children.

Love them hard and love them well. Appreciate every small moment and celebrate the big ones as if they’ll be your last.

Life is fragile and fleeting and a gift meant to be lived to the fullest.

That’s all I could ever want for Ava and Alex.



All my love,

Ellie Mae Ritter




Oh, Ellie, how could you have known how desperately I’d need these words? I see your smiling face lining the walls of your parents’ house. Recognize your features in the faces of Ava and Alex. And it’s so hard not to feel like I’m somehow doing something wrong by stepping into your life. By loving your children so deeply. By thinking of them as my own.



The guilt I’ve carried for a year now spills onto the page. Drop by drop, the breath I’ve been holding eases. I look to her portrait on the windowsill, close my eyes, and make her a solemn vow.

“I promise, I’ll do right by you.”