6 December, 2025, was the first day we saw both of you. Two tiny shapeless orbs but with heartbeats that echo through the examination room; and there was your tata’s excitement, silent but just as loud.
I loved you the moment we saw you, little bulbs with no form, or, perhaps even before that, when your force made me so sure I was carrying you, and that you were a boy. I loved you then, and more than that I knew you deeply, felt your soul and your energy and your life before those strong double lines materialised on the pregnancy stick.
And then a touch of magic made you… boys.
Every time we could see you two is a marvel. Your little noses and profiles, countable fingers and toes, the neat tiny bones of your spines. The way you would flex and clench your fists and stretch your limbs.
I marvel at the gift of company even at your very start, little fingers that reach and prod across the wall at another life, playful legs that kick at one other. You would know each other in extraordinary ways that most do not experience. His eyes are your eyes, his blood yours.
The doctor says to try and identify which flutter inside me belongs to which of you. I realised then that I have always known. Each little turn you make, the 3am somersaults one of you are prone to, the pre-dinner hungry dances, the punching up at my lungs, I always know who they belong to. But both of you are equally calmed by your tata’s voice and when he presses his firm hands on my belly.
If I have given you any gift at all, my babies, it is the best tata in the world. I have given you his genes, his love, his protectiveness and loyalty, his strength and generosity and one day, his ability to make both of you laugh. We are so in love with you already.
Love, Mama.
Q 