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A plum.
That’s how big you were.
That’s how big you’ll always be.
Your mother likes plums, you know?
I used to pick them for her sometimes, while she was busy working out.
She would come home, sweaty and tired. But she would see me and her eyes would light up. She’d smile that perfect gorgeous smile of hers. Oh, how I wish you could’ve seen it.
She’d take the plum from my hand and bite right into it, sweet juices rolling down her chin.
I’d laugh.
I’d hug her.
I’d kiss her.
It was all so simple then.
She would tell me that she loved me. With her whole chest, she’d say it.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
I miss it.
I miss her.
I miss the us we used to be.
Before you.
I love you, Plum.
I do.
Throughout this story you will think that I don’t, but it’s important for you to remember that I do.
I love you so very, very much, Plum.
And I am so profoundly sorry.
You’re a miracle, you know?
Your very existence defies science. You were made of pure magic.
Magic and love.
Two people—two women—who loved each other to the point of miracles. To the point of you.
There’s some beauty in that, despite all that came after.
Your mother knew about you first.
The signs were there, the test was positive. There was no denying you.
No matter how hard I tried.
I took your mother to the best doctors in all of Piltover, demanding an answer to a question I didn’t realize I was asking.
But your mother did.
She saw it right away. She read me like she always did—as easy to understand as the children’s books you never got to play with.
“Why aren’t you happy about it?” she asked me in the waiting room.
I didn’t have time to answer. In just that moment, we were called in and I thanked the gods for it.
The appointment was brutal, though. It was exams and words we didn’t quite understand. It was imaging and blood draws and complicated conversations.
And all the while, all that I could fit inside my head was the sound of your mother’s voice—soft and sad and broken, saying “Why aren’t you happy about it?”
Why wasn’t I happy about it, Plum?
Why wasn’t I happy about you?
It’s in my nature to want to know the inner working mechanisms of any given situation. It’s always been like this for me.
And so, I attributed my need to understand you to a simple quirk in my personality. A silly little compulsion. An innocent little urge. A scratch to itch, a puzzle to complete, an otherwise innocuous feature of my neurodivergence.
But when your mother asked me, “Why aren’t you happy about it?”, I realized how wrong I had been.
About everything.
It was eventually proven with no uncertainty that you were alive.
You were mine. You were your mother’s.
You were ours.
The start of the conversation sat on the tip of my tongue for several days.
You see, Plum, I did love you. Even before I fully knew it, I loved you.
But—and this is as difficult to say as it must be for you to hear—I simply did not want you.
I cannot tell you why I didn’t want you because I simply do not know.
And if I did, it would be impossible to put it into words.
I’m sorry.
I wish I had an answer for you.
I wish I’d had an answer for your mother.
“This is all an accident,” I said once.
That’s what I called you, Plum. An accident.
But what I really meant—what your mother perfectly understood—was “This is all a mistake.”
It was late in the middle of the night, and we were both awake but pretending to be asleep.
Pretending to be okay.
The silence broke, when your mother said, “You want me to get rid of it.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway.
“Yes.”
“It’s our child.”
“I know.”
“You don’t care?”
“I care.”
“Not enough.”
Your mother got up and left, opting to spend the rest of the night in a guest room instead.
It wasn’t far enough.
I still could hear her cry.
Your mother asked me in the morning if I wanted to leave her.
I said no. No, I’d never leave her.
Then, I asked her if she would leave me.
But she did not reply.
Your mother liked to fight. No, she loved to fight.
She would argue with me constantly, over every little thing, as if it were her love language. Maybe it was.
Maybe that’s why it hurt me more that she never tried to fight about you.
She decided, without me—in spite of me—, to keep you.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “I can raise the baby in Zaun all on my own.”
I said, “Please, don’t be ridiculous.”
It made me angry that she would want to leave. We’d made vows to each other. Sacred promises. And she was ready to throw it all away because I didn’t want you.
And how could I blame her? I couldn’t. But I wanted to fight. Oh, how badly did I want to fight. To feel something. Anything. To be torn apart—to absolute shreds. To be told how awful I was, how heartless, how devoid of a human soul.
What kind of mother doesn’t want her child?
What kind of monster did your mother marry?
But she didn’t fight me. She didn’t yell. She didn’t validate my self-loathing.
She simply said, “I’ll move my stuff to the guest room by tonight.”
I was very troubled, Plum.
I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t understand your mother. I didn’t understand me. I didn’t understand you.
The first time we heard your heartbeat, we both cried.
Your mother cried because she was excited.
I cried because I was terrified.
She cried in the doctor’s office, holding tightly onto my hand.
I cried back at home, locked up in the bathroom and curled up on the floor.
I don’t mean to make you pity me, Plum.
I know my situation isn’t deserving of it.
But I did feel quite alone in this. I felt quite misunderstood.
I never wanted children. Even as a child myself, I always knew.
When others played with baby dolls, I would play detective. When others dreamed of motherhood, I would dream of freedom.
Your mother knew this too.
On the night of our engagement, I said to her, “Darling, I was born to be your wife, but only take me if you know that I would never be a mother.”
And she laughed. She kissed me. She said, “I know, Cupcake. Don’t worry.”
But, oh, I should have worried. When I saw the way that she loved children so. When I heard the way she talked of family. When I could have realized—really, truly realized—if I had only paid more attention.
I wonder if your mother thought that I would eventually change my mind. Or if she thought things would simply be different now that you existed.
Maybe she expected me to say, “I didn’t want this before, but now that it’s here, I am overjoyed. Now that it’s here, I realize I was wrong all along.”
I would lay awake at night and ponder this. All alone in our enormous, empty bed.
I felt myself a swinging pendulum, constantly between two emotions: anger or despair.
Though, I suppose, your mother felt quite similarly. How could she not?
But at least she got some moments of solace. Of happiness. Of joyfully anticipating your arrival.
She talked to you sometimes. Do you remember?
She would say things like, “I can’t wait to meet you,” and “I love you so much already.”
Such sweet things. Such incredible devotion.
I would hear it and think she was so clearly made to be a mother. To be your mother.
It made me feel all the more insufficient.
I decided there was no use in both of us being miserable, so I tucked away all of my discomfort. I let my guilt and my remorse guide me into being the person I was being asked to be—for her and for you.
And, Plum, I do love you. I love you now and I did then. That was never pretend.
But everything else… Everything else was.
I helped your mother decorate the nursery.
I bought the most adorable clothes for you—onesies and dresses and shirts with little tractors on them.
I brainstormed names to give you, all so meaningful and special.
I convinced your mother to come back to our shared bedroom, so that I could tend to her.
Everything I did, I did for her. I did for you.
But deep inside, the feeling never quite did settle. As, of course, I always knew it wouldn’t.
But, I figured, what’s an entire lifetime of self-sacrifice?
Your mother was happy for some time. I made sure of it.
“I hope they look like you,” she told me once.
I didn't care what you looked like, Plum. But I could’ve cried from joy all the same.
This was just the closest thing to “I love you”, that I would ever get from her ever again.
It happened late at night.
Another accident.
This one much worse.
This one much more painful.
Your mother was in Zaun, visiting your uncle.
I was meant to go with her, but I called in for an emergency at work.
And that was common. Emergencies, always emergencies. Stepping away, losing so many moments.
“When will you see your child?” your mother would ask me. “You’ll miss their entire life.”
Well.
Turns out I missed your death as well, didn’t I?
It was a group of them. Ex-convicts. People your mother had met during her time in prison. Eager for some sort of revenge, I suppose. Some semblance of an upper hand.
Your mother fought them off as best as she could. She did some real damage, from what the final enforcer report said.
But so did they.
I met her at the hospital. Rushed in and stormed right into her room. Right up to her bedside.
She was crying already. So wholly inconsolable.
“Darling,” I said to her. “My darling, I am so, so sorry.”
And I meant it. Of course I meant it.
My heart was shattered too.
But then, she turned away from me.
She pushed me back.
She said, “Looks like you got just what you wanted after all.”
Plum, this isn’t what I wanted.
None of it.
Not like this.
Not with so much blood, so much damage, so much grief.
Your mother buried you in Zaun.
She didn’t let me come.
I don’t know what sort of mother I would have been for you, Plum, but I know I would have tried.
I would have given you so much love.
I would have provided so much warmth.
And I would have never let you know just how much your very existence hurt me.
No, you would have been the happiest child alive. I would have ensured it.
Your mother isn’t the same now.
She will never be the same.
I don’t think I will either.
I mourned you, Plum.
I still do.
And I don’t understand how that works.
I don’t understand how it can hurt this much.
To lose something—someone—you never truly wanted.
There are things you will never know, never see, never taste, never feel.
There are some things we will never understand.
But I do understand this:
I loved you.
I love you.
But mostly, I am sorry.
- Your mum
- Your mother
- Caitlyn