Dear Becca,

I am writing this Christmas card with the help of my friend, Anna. She is typing my words on a braille machine. This way, you’ll be able to read them on Christmas morning. And hopefully in years to come.

I want you to know how excited I am to have you at our house for Christmas. I have been counting down the days.

I love it when you’re here. You’re only 11 years old, which means you’ll probably forget all about me one day—you might even forget that you came to my house for Christmas.

But I won’t forget. I will never forget this wonderful holiday week. Not for as long as I live.

I love the way your personality lights up our empty home. It’s like magic. And I can always tell which room you’re in, too.

Even if you’re being quiet, I can always find you. All I have to do is follow the persistent humming. You hum wherever you go. You hum even when you’re in the bathroom, peeing. God help us when you learn to whistle.

Also, I love the way you give affection. I’ve never met a person who receives or gives affection like you. I realize this is probably because you were an NICU baby.

I also realize you were not touched after being abandoned by your birth parents. I realize you were ignored for the first two years of your life before you were adopted. And I know this had an effect on your little body.

But you’re making up for lost time. Your hugs bless me. Each one of your embraces I count as gold. I love hugging you in my arms, and smelling your shampoo. Or the scent of your little-kid sweat, after you’ve been outside playing. I love the special way you fit into the cavern of my ribs. Like we were made for each other.

You probably don’t know this, but the day I met you was a powerful day in my own personal history. It was the day my whole world changed.

In fact, my whole existence can be divided into pre-Becca days and post-Becca days.

It’s no secret. I had a less than wonderful childhood. My early days were filled with sadness, neglect, and abuse. But unbeknownst to you, you have begun repairing me.

You have a wonderful life ahead of you. You’re going to be a teenager soon. Then, you’ll be a college student—Lord have mercy on us all.

Maybe someday you’ll walk down the aisle and take a young man’s last name. Perhaps, someday, heaven willing, you will adopt kids of your own.

I don’t know. I can’t see the future, Becca. But I do see bright days ahead. So many that I need sunglasses.

Even so, on those occasional blue days; days when you feel alone; or afraid; or frightened; or anxious; or forgotten; I want you to find this letter, so keep it in a safe place.

And if I am dead and gone, I want you to use your little fingers to touch these words, and imagine my fingers touching your fingertips from the other side of the brailled page.

And I want you to remember how much joy you brought to an ordinary, tired man. I want you to remember how you painted my life with your love. And I want you to understand why I don’t need any gifts this year, sweetheart.

Because you are the gift.

Merry Christmas,
—Sean