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Love Letter to a Broken Dream

“We’re going to have a baby.”  My wife gave me a tremendous squeeze.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s the beginning of a great adventure,” she sang.
We were so happy. Everything was perfect. We had brilliant careers, a solid relationship and a jet-set lifestyle of enviable spontaneity. Now, we would add the perfect child to our perfect everything. We’d decided to have only one child. It would be a girl because we felt that would be perfect. We would send her to the best schools. She would grow up to become a famous artist or scientist.
What could possibly go wrong?
At the time, we lived in Morocco, so her name would be Savannah after the African savanna, and Marguerite after my grandmother. We chose a boy’s name, just in case... We wrote our dreams for her in a shared journal that we passed back and forth. I even sketched a self-portrait on one of the pages. I was twenty-nine years old. That journal rests, unmolested, on a shelf alongside other notebooks from that time period. Not lo…

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