A Letter To My Son On His 18th Birthday

Lorna Dahle - 8 Jun 16

To my darling boy on your 18th birthday,

You saved my life, precious boy. Things weren’t so good in my world before you came. You filled my heart with love, and my life with reason. And now you are a young man, of whom I am immensely and immeasurably proud.

I remember taking a taxi to the hospital for my ultrasound and the radio playing ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ by Stevie Wonder. I took this to be a sign that I was having a girl. During my appointment I discovered that wasn’t the case, I was carrying you.

We didn’t have the easiest start, you and I. I was only 20, with just a temping job and nowhere permanent to live. But we managed, thanks to the help of some lovely people. I waddled off to antenatal classes and made friends with all the grown-up couples who seem a little bemused by this funny girl rocking up alone, seemingly unfazed by the new world she was entering. I remember our due dates approaching, we would meet up each week and everyone else’s babies appeared one by one. But not you. On the the day you were due I was at the seaside with a friend, knowing full well you had no intention of turning up just yet. Two weeks later, we finally met. It was a rainy Monday morning, you arrived quickly and I fell instantly in love with your squished face and quite obviously ginger hair. We lived in a tiny doll’s house, just you and I. I would take you down to the park and hold you in my arms on the swing, singing to you. We muddled through each day in a fog of nappies and feeding, the usual baby malarkey. People would visit to cuddle you, to bring gifts, but by the evening it was just the two of us in our little world.

Sometimes I felt terribly sad that I couldn’t give you more. Whilst your little friends had paddling pools and toy cars, on sunny days you had a plastic tub full of water to play in and a cardboard box that I had turned into a fire engine for you. Of course, you were perfectly happy and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself about things that don’t matter.

We spent three years together before your sister arrived. You were so proud to be a big brother. Despite the bickering, I think you are still pretty fond of each other, depending on the day.

I fell in love with a man who loved you as if you were his son. Although we’re no longer together, he is still your father and the love he has for you has only grown stronger over the years. For a time we were a family of four. It’s sad that it couldn’t continue but I’m so proud of how well you coped with the divorce.

I really don’t know where the time has gone. We got so caught up in the daily whirl of book-bags, packed lunches and school runs that I didn’t even notice you growing up. School got harder for you, the older you got. By the time you were ten we realised that you were struggling with things and you received a diagnosis of Asperger’s. It hasn’t proved to be a great hindrance to you, although I know you sometimes resent being “different”. You are amazingly clever, with an impressive knowledge and understanding of science and the most fantastically dry and cutting sense of humour. I think you’re bloody brilliant – the surreal and hilarious moments we have shared make me so happy to be your mother. 

I would do anything to have just one more day with you as a little one: to experience those sleepy cuddles, to watch your funny dancing, to be able to kiss it better when you were hurting. We’ve shared so many experiences, and have many happy memories which far outweigh the sadness I feel about the circumstances of your early life. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and my heart fills with pride when I see what a wonderful young man you have become. Your future is bright and you can achieve whatever you set your heart on. All I want is for you to be happy, my darling boy. I love you, always.

Now let’s head down the pub for your first pint. x

Lorna Dahle

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