A child does not ask to be born. She arrives not by her own will, but through the longing, the hope — perhaps the blind faith — of her parents. In this truth lies a sacred and irreversible debt. For to bring a life into the world is not merely a gift given — it is a responsibility taken.

And so, I owe you, my child. Not in the transactional sense, but in the deepest moral and spiritual one. You are here because I wished you into being. What you become, and what you endure, echoes back to me.

Yet paradoxically, though I brought you forth, it is you who bring me joy beyond measure. In your laughter, in your curiosity, in the radiance of your innocent affection, I receive far more than I could ever return. Your love — pure, abundant, unconditional — is a grace I have not earned.

And still, I falter.

There are days when the weight of the world seeps into me — from work, from wounds, from weariness — and in those moments, I may misplace my pain. I may raise my voice, not at you, but near you. I may let the shadows of my life brush against your light. And afterward, the guilt comes — quiet, yet sharp — for I know: you are not the cause of my storms, and yet I made you feel their wind.

Sometimes I look at you and ache.

This world, beautiful as it is, is not without its cruelty. There will be dark clouds. And in those moments, the deepest ache of all is the fear that I brought you here — to suffer, even briefly. That I, in creating you, have also delivered you into pain.

But then I return to resolve.

If I cannot shield you from every sorrow, then let me become strong enough to lift you through them. Let me sharpen my mind, widen my heart, steady my hands — so that your experience of life is filled not just with survival, but with wonder. So that you may drink deeply from joy, from beauty, from the miracle of existence.

This life — your life — is once and only once. I owe it to you, not just to love you, but to rise for you. To make the world a little kinder, your path a little smoother, your days a little brighter — because you are here not by demand, but by my choice.

And I will carry that choice — not with regret, but with reverence.