Letter VI
To the child who was never born
I have wanted to write you countless letters, but you disappeared, and all my attempts to bring you back were in vain. If you do not wish me to be your mother, then at least let us remain friends.
My dear daughter or son,
How old are you now? Where do you stand in this endless existence? Upon this heavy earth, or soaring in the lightness of the sky?
I will call you Nava. You are my voice; speak, so that I may hear you.
A voice is heard within silence, and silence requires wisdom. I hope we become wise enough to hear the voices around us.
I hope we learn to see the other; their anger, the sorrow that has gathered over years. May we listen to them without rushing to speak ourselves.
We made mistakes, and we repeated our mistakes for years. We did not listen enough.
My dear daughter or son,
Spring lost its steps in the alleyways and you remained absent. I hope I will long for you again; so deeply that the desire for your life may reveal itself within me once more.
In these years, while I was not your mother, I have learned the value of pause and reflection. I practice seeing the other, and in seeing them, I have found myself, again and again.
I want the compass of my life to be wisdom and thought. Not fear, not haste, and not habit.
A woman who wanted to be your mother
July 2, 2026
This letter was translated from Persian.