Dear Raya

 

Dear Raya,

Your sisters call me Masi. Or Mas. 

To put it simply, I am the original Masi. In our language, Gujarati, it means I am your mom’s sister. But it means more than that, too. It means I get to be your second mother. It means I get to show up, spoil you, protect you, and be your safe place when the world feels too loud. I’ve done that with your sisters. And I was ready to do that for you, too.

Author Bessel van der Kolk wrote a book called The Body Keeps the Score. In it, he talks about how even when we try to ignore or forget trauma, our bodies remember it. That must be why, this past November, I felt an ache I couldn’t explain—like my heart was heavy, but wrapped in numbness. It was a strange kind of sadness, quiet but consuming. I hadn’t realized that grief could live so deeply in the body, long after the moment has passed.

I came to see you that day—the day you came out of your mommy’s belly. I remember the weight of the room, how everything felt suspended in time. It was probably one of the saddest days of my life. The silence wasn’t empty; it was thick with love,  longing and sorrow.

And then, I saw you. You were perfect. You looked just like your sisters—so much so that I felt time bending, like I was seeing all of them as babies again. It still amazes me that your parents created three beautiful baby girls who looked like tiny reflections of one another—each one her own, yet unmistakably tied together.

When I held you, you felt so light in my arms. And yet, the moment was impossibly heavy. You were real. You were here. You had grown inside your mama for 220 days—just a little over seven months. So close. So ready to meet the world. We had all been waiting for you. We had imagined your laugh, your cry, the sparkle in your eyes. We had pictured your sisters showing you how to dance, how to play, how to love.

But the world had a different plan. The real world... maybe it wasn’t meant for us to meet here.

Still, I believe you're someplace better. Somewhere softer, quieter. A place with no pain, only peace. You didn’t get to grow up here, but somehow, you’ve already left your imprint on our lives. I didn’t get to watch you become who you were meant to be—but I will always carry you with me. Even though we didn’t get to know you in this life, you’ve already left a mark that will never fade.

Grief is complicated, especially when you're grieving someone who wasn’t "yours." But you were mine—in the same way your sisters are mine. I wish I had the chance to show you what our relationship could have been. To show you what it means to have a Masi who adores you.

My heart aches for the moments we’ll never get to share—for the tiny braids I’ll never twist into your hair, for the dance parties we’ll never throw in the living room, for the sleepovers you’ll miss and the stories I’ll never get to tell you.

But for now, I will carry your spirit in the quiet moments, in the love I show your sisters, and in the soft, sacred corners of my heart. 

You are loved beyond measure. 

You always will be.