Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
EMILIA
I’m sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by photo albums, when Asher finds me.
“What’s all this?”
I wipe my eyes. “All the photos I’ve been meaning to organize. From Miles’ first two years.”
Asher sinks down beside me, picking up a photo of newborn Miles. His hands shake slightly.
“Can I—can I see them all?”
“That’s why I got them out.” I take a breath. “I know you’ve seen some on my phone. But these are all of them. Printed, organized. The whole story of what you missed.”
It’s a gift and a wound all at once.
He seems to understand. “Thank you. For sharing this with me.”
We start at the beginning. Me, hugely pregnant, at what looks like 38 weeks.
“Cora took this the day before I went into labor,” I explain. “I was miserable. Swollen feet, back ache, couldn’t sleep. But I was so excited to meet him.”
Next photo: me in the hospital bed, exhausted but smiling, Miles on my chest.
“First moment,” I whisper. “He was twenty minutes old.”
Asher traces the photo with his finger. “You look beautiful.”
“I look exhausted.”
“Beautifully exhausted.” He looks at me. “I should have been there.”
“I know. But you weren’t. So Cora was. And she was amazing.”
More photos: Miles in the nursery, Miles’ first bath, Miles sleeping in the bassinet beside my hospital bed.
Then home: the tiny apartment I lived in before moving in with Cora. Miles in a borrowed crib, surrounded by hand-me-down clothes and love.
“We didn’t have much,” I say. “But we had enough.”
Asher is crying now, silent tears streaming down his face.
First smile: Miles at six weeks, gummy grin captured perfectly.
“I remember this day,” I say. “I’d been up all night with him. I was so tired I could barely function. Then he just… smiled at me. And everything was worth it.”
First bath at home: Miles screaming, me looking frazzled, both of us soaking wet.
“Bath time was traumatic for the first few months. He hated it.”
“He loves it now.”
“Took a while to get there.”
Three months: Miles in a bumbo seat, looking startled by his own existence.
“This is my favorite phase,” I say. “He was chunky and smiley and starting to be interactive.”
Six months: First foods. Miles covered in puréed sweet potato, looking offended.
“He hated sweet potato. Loved pears though.”
Asher laughs through his tears. “Of course he did.”
Eight months: Crawling. Action shots of Miles moving at high speed toward something off-camera.
“He learned to crawl and immediately became a menace. Nothing was safe.”
Ten months: First steps. Cora captured the moment—Miles standing, wobbling, taking one step before falling on his diaper-padded bottom.
“I cried when he walked,” I admit. “Happy tears but also sad ones. Because he was growing up and I was doing it alone and I wished—”
“Wished I was there.”
“Yeah.”
First birthday: Miles in a high chair, cake everywhere, huge smile.
“We had a small party. Just me, Cora, and Autumn. He loved the cake. Hated the singing.”
More recent photos: Miles at the park, Miles with Autumn, Miles asleep in my arms, Miles playing with his elephant.
The photo album of a life lived without me.
Asher closes the last album and just sits there, overwhelmed.
“I missed everything,” he finally says.
“Not everything. You’re here now.”
“But his first steps, his first words, his first everything—I wasn’t there. I can never get that back.”
“No,” I agree gently. “You can’t. But Asher, you’ll be there for everything going forward. Second words, third words, first day of school, first bike ride, first everything that matters.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No. It’s not. But it’s what we have.”
He pulls me close, and we sit there surrounded by the evidence of two years apart.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “For making you do this alone.”
“I know. I forgive you. But more importantly, I need you to forgive yourself.”
“How can I?”
“Because holding onto guilt won’t change the past. It’ll just poison the future.” I pull back to look at him. “I need you present, Asher. Not stuck in what you missed. Miles needs a dad who’s here now, not one drowning in regret.”
He nods, wiping his eyes. “You’re right.”
“I usually am.”
That gets a small smile.
“Can I have copies?” he asks. “Of all these photos. I want to make my own album. So I can see his first two years even though I wasn’t there.”
“Of course. I was planning to make you one anyway.”
“And will you—” He hesitates. “Will you tell me the stories? Behind each photo? So I know the context, the moments?”
“All of them. Every single story.”
We spend the next two hours going through the albums again. This time, I tell him everything. The hard days and the beautiful ones. The 3 AM feedings and the first time Miles laughed. The struggles and the victories.
“He was sick a lot the first six months,” I explain. “Ear infections, mostly. We basically lived at the pediatrician.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“It was. But we got through it.”
“You got through it. You’re incredible, Emilia.”
“I was desperate and terrified and making it up as I went.”
“That’s basically all parenting is.”
“True.”
By the time we finish, Miles is waking from his nap. We can hear him through the monitor, talking to Eph.
“Dada,” he’s saying. “Where Dada? I wake up! Dada!”
Asher’s face lights up. “He’s asking for me.”
“Every single nap. You’re his favorite person.”
“Second favorite. You’re first.”
“We can share the top spot.”
We head upstairs together and find Miles standing in his crib, elephant in hand, hair sticking up from sleep.
“DADA! MAMA!” His whole face lights up seeing us both. “You here!”
“We’re here, buddy,” Asher says, lifting him out. “Always.”
Later, after Miles is playing happily with his toys, Asher pulls me aside.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says.
“Dangerous.”
He smiles. “I want to make a new album. Of all of us. Starting from the wedding crash forward. All the new firsts—first time I held him, first time we fed ducks together, first family dinner. All of it.”
“I love that idea.”
“And someday, when he’s old enough to understand, we’ll show him both albums. The before and the after. And we’ll tell him the truth—that we made mistakes, but we found our way back to each other.”
“He’ll have questions.”
“Let him. We’ll answer honestly. Age-appropriately, but honestly.”
I hug him, breathing in his familiar scent. “You’re going to be an amazing dad.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“You already are.”
That night, I print extra copies of all the photos. Tomorrow, I’ll help Asher make his album of Miles’ first two years.
And we’ll start filling new albums with new memories.
Not to erase the past or pretend it didn’t hurt.
But to honor where we’ve been and celebrate where we’re going.
Together.
As a family.
Finally, completely, perfectly imperfect.
And that’s enough.
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