“An open letter to my daughter:

I see you. Or at least the pieces you want me to see.

I have come to your house early in the morning for weeks and weeks, to take care of my delicious grandson, and I don’t ask questions.

I see the tears in your eyes when you tell me that you are happy for your sister when she announces her pregnancy, and I don’t ask questions.

I watch you shrink away from crowds during family events, sometimes leaving early and sometimes not coming at all, and I don’t ask questions.

I know something is going on, no matter how hard you try to hide it, but it’s clear that you don’t want to talk about it.

So instead I cry and weep and plead with Hashem (G-d) and beg him to fix whatever is going on. Because as someone who only had two kids and many, many miscarriages, I get it. I didn’t tell anyone either.

And now watching you go through this, whatever the this is, it’s killing me to remain silent. You may have wondered why our family was so much smaller than everyone else’s. And truthfully, I don’t have answers because the doctors back then didn’t have any answers either. Who knows, maybe if I had been born later, I could have had lots of children like everyone else.

So in the meantime, I pray for you and hope that you won’t suffer all the years that I did.

And I hope that one day, you’ll tell me what’s going on. Because I love you and nothing you say will ever change that.”

Sent in by a grandmother