in remembrance

To My Forever Firstborn

Reflections on grief seven years after my daughter was stillborn.

by Rob Reider

18 hours ago

Isabel Pavia/Moment/Getty Images

She would have been 7 years old this past December. I rarely remember my dreams; they evaporate within moments of opening my eyes. Except for the three dreams where my daughter has visited me. In each of those dreams she appeared the age she would have been. Her hair was a soft, amber brown just like her mother’s. Her eyes were a deep and dark brown like mine, her father’s. The way she smiled had a breathtaking sparkle. Lila, her name, means “night.” But anticipating her arrival brought my wife and me the brightest light we’ve ever known. We loved saying her name. Lila sounded so soft and beautiful. We agreed on her name as soon as my wife introduced it. Each night she came, I knew I was dreaming – and I held on as tightly as I could to stay asleep and be with her.

Waking up is devastating. It’s like stepping into the life I thought we’d share, that we were supposed to share, and then having it ripped away from me. The weight of grief is so heavy on my chest that I can’t move. It felt just as extreme and suffocating as it had during our first year without her.