Twenty-one years.

It feels impossible to write that.

Twenty-one years since my son, Benjamin, died inside me—in the one place that was supposed to be safest for him. My body was supposed to protect him, grow him, nourish him, and keep his tiny heart beating until the day I could finally hold him in my arms. Instead, he died in the very place where he was supposed to thrive.

Even after all these years, a part of me still whispers, I failed you.

I never got to see you or hold you against my chest. I never got to count your fingers and toes, study your face, or memorize every detail of you. I don’t know what color your eyes would have been, or whether you would have had mine.

I don’t know what your laugh would have sounded like, what kind of personality you would have had, or who you would have become. Would you have been wild, quiet, funny, or stubborn like your mom? Would you have reached for my hand when we crossed the street, called for me when you were scared, or rolled your eyes at me as you grew older?

There are a thousand memories I never had the chance to make with you. That is one of the cruelest parts of infant loss: you grieve not only the baby you lost, but the entire lifetime you imagined.

The toddler you never chased through the house. The first day of school.The birthdays and Christmas mornings. The scraped knees.The teenage years.The man you might have become.

You grieve a whole life that existed inside your heart but never got the chance to exist beside you. People sometimes think time makes grief disappear. It doesn’t. It teaches you how to carry it.

In these twenty-one years, I have lived, laughed, loved, raised children, and built a life. Still, there is a little boy missing from every version of it.

Benjamin.

You never took a breath in this world, but you existed. You were here. You were wanted. You were loved, and you are still loved.

The guilt has stayed with me, but so has something stronger: the love I have for you. It has grown alongside me, carried me through the years, and kept your place in my heart. Somewhere inside me will always live the mother who was waiting to meet her little boy.

There is a phrase I see on social media that reaches me every time:

“Bury me with my laces tied. I have a play date with a little boy waiting on me.”

Maybe those words hurt so deeply because, no matter how many years pass, part of me is still waiting for our introduction for the chance to see your face, discover whether you have my eyes, and hold the little boy I have loved for twenty-one years.

Until then, I will say your name.

Benjamin.

You were my son then.

You are my son now.

And twenty-one years later,

I am still your mom.