I was recently thinking back to when you first told me you were going to be a dad, all those years ago. I still remember it so clearly. I was in our bedroom in KC, practicing yoga, lying on the mat texting you.
You were so happy.
It’s funny to think about now – you became a parent a full decade before me. Not that it was ever a race, but I didn’t yet understand what it truly meant to be someone’s mother or father. All the quiet sacrifices. All the ways your life shifts without you even realizing it.
But even then, I could see it. You loved him. That tiny, sweet baby. Despite everything you were carrying, you loved fiercely. You were so proud to be a dad.
And now Ava has Carter.
Since she’ll be an only child, I want her to have family she can always rely on, people who know her beyond just us. There’s something really special about that.
I found out I was pregnant on September 1, 2023. Nikea was visiting, and almost immediately, I knew this baby would carry your name in some way.
If it had been a boy, Dan had strong opinions – Marcus, Maximus, Plato… you can imagine how those conversations went. I kept saying none of those names were going anywhere near Christopher or James.
Luckily, we found out we were having a girl.
And even though we went back and forth on her first name, I never questioned her middle name.
Ava Christine Kasper.
Ava was born May 1, 2024. A perfect pregnancy. A perfect delivery. I’d hold my belly and talk to her, feel her respond to my voice, my touch.
And then she was here – and I fell for her in a way I didn’t know was possible.
She is everything. My moon, my stars, my future, my past. Everything I did right wrapped into one perfect little person.
She knows about you.
At 23 months, she doesn’t understand what it means to lose someone. She only knows love. Safety. Joy. And I want to keep it that way for as long as I can.
But hearing her say “Uncle Chris” in her tiny voice… it does something to me.
I think she knows your picture in her room. The one where you’re laying down, head on your arm, smiling. You look so happy in it. Peaceful.
That’s how I imagine you now. Watching her. Watching us.
Happy. Content. Proud.
She’s talked to Carter a few times. He’s so sweet with her. A total goof – just like you were, but lighter. Happier.
He danced and made faces on FaceTime and she wasn’t sure what to think at first, but then she warmed up to him.
In August, they’ll finally meet.
And I’ll get to see him too.
It’s been years. And I can’t hug you anymore… but I can hug him. And right now, that feels like the closest thing.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop as I write this, listening to the playlist I made after you died.
And even though it’s been almost a decade, time doesn’t feel linear when it comes to you. It folds in on itself. I can still feel those first days like they just happened.
They were the darkest days of my life.
But also some of the most beautiful.
Because we held onto each other in a way we never had before. We laughed. We cried. We survived together.
And you felt close. So close.
“I got you, sis.”
“Look after Mom.”
Those words came to me so clearly, like they weren’t even my own thoughts.
And then all the things I still can’t explain.
The TV turning on by itself. The smell of Herbal Essences. The nights you “smacked” Mom and me awake – which still makes me laugh. Like you were saying, “Stop crying.”
Speaking of Mom… you would be so proud of her.
She came to visit. Got on a plane by herself. Spent a full week here.
I haven’t had that much time with her since I was a freshman in high school.
She’s different now. Lighter. Present. Free in a way I’ve never seen before.
She doesn’t smoke. She doesn’t drink. She eats. She lives.
And learning what she went through as a child… it reframes everything.
I’ve always had empathy for her. Even as a kid, I understood she did the best she could.
But now, as a mom myself, I see her with Ava and realize – she’s become the person she needed back then.
And that changes everything.
Because yes, things could have been different for us.
But if they were… I wouldn’t have Dan.
I wouldn’t have Ava.
And I can’t imagine a world without her.
This was also the first March 24th Mom and I spent together since high school.
You would have turned 34.
I can’t picture you at 34. I try, but I can’t.
Instead, I think of you as a baby.
Mom told stories – how chubby you were, how she held you all night.
I remember checking if you were breathing. Making you laugh. Your screams.
And now, when I look at pictures of you, I don’t just miss you.
I want to protect you.
The same way I protect Ava.
Being a parent is hard.
And knowing how much you struggled – and that you still showed up for Carter in the ways you could – makes me more proud of you than I can put into words.
I hope you knew that.
Because when someone is hurting that deeply… being the person your child deserves can feel impossible.
I understand that now in a way I didn’t before.
Postpartum depression brought me closer to that edge than I ever expected. Close enough to understand your pain in a way that scared me.
And that changed things for me. It shaped my decision not to have another baby.
Because I couldn’t risk going back there.
April 8 feels heavier this year.
I didn’t take the day off. I probably should have.
But somehow, I logged in this morning to zero emails. Even now, I’ve only had a few.
That doesn’t happen.
So I know that was you.
“I got you, sis.”
Have I been productive? Not really.
But today isn’t about productivity.
It’s about getting through it.
Because every hour, my mind goes back to:
“He was still here nine years ago.”
Like time could fold, and I could reach you.
And tonight, I’ll think about you on that couch.
And I’ll replay it all…the what-ifs, the if-onlys.
Every year, I have to remind myself:
There was nothing I could have done.
But that doesn’t mean the thoughts go away.
They don’t.
I know you have… whatever comes next going on.
At least I hope you do.
But don’t forget about us down here.
We still need you.
And next year will be ten years.
I don’t know how I’ve made it this long without you.
So stay close.
Keep guiding us.
Keep protecting us.
Love you, Buddy
Letters to Chris 