Today would have been your birthday. Let's see... I think you would have been turning 11. Not that we ever did anything huge on your birthday. I'd slip you a couple of extra treats, usually, but other than that we'd maybe consider getting you a new toy to destroy.
I miss you. I'm starting to forget... and yet part of me forces me to remember. I think it's mostly guilt. Or something to with how I see myself and my values. What happened to you was completely at odds with them. And on some level I still feel like I can't deal with it. It's almost been a year now, and I still can't think of you without feeling too many intense emotions.
I hate what we did to you. I hate it so much. I hate that I question myself about it almost every day. I hate that I compare you and Bronte so often in my mind and out loud. I hate that I keep trying to convince myself that what we did was the right thing. I hate that you aren't here anymore.
I hope one day you can forgive me. And that I can forgive myself.