After losing my wife, Emily, to cancer, I thought my dreams of family and happiness were over. Then, on the day of her funeral, I found a mysterious baby carriage on my doorstep with a letter from her inside. She had made arrangements for a surrogate to carry our child if I chose to pursue it.
Emily was the type to remember your coffee order after one meeting and bring soup when you were sick. She’d planned every detail of our lives, from our yard in the suburbs to the family we never got to start. Even in her final days, she prepared for the future, ensuring I’d be okay after she was gone.
In the letter, she’d made arrangements for a surrogate named Natasha and left detailed instructions on the next steps, but still gave me the choice. After months of grieving and talking with her sister Kate, I decided to move forward. This past spring, our daughter, Lily, was born. Now, sitting in her nursery, I see Emily’s spirit reflected in Lily’s tiny features. Emily knew me better than anyone, even planning for a future without her. Through Lily, she’ll always be with us.
