Tales for Trixie: Not a Secret, Just Ours

Note: Same with Stories for Saab, Tales for Trixie will be written like letters to my daughter, Trixie -- part keepsake, part storytelling, and part catharsis. Others might be more practical like product reviews, but they all come from the same place: a mother learning, loving, and documenting the journey from grief to hope and happiness. Whether you’re a fellow parent, a curious reader, or someone walking a similar path — welcome. I’m glad you’re here.

Trixie, some stories begin with a bang — grand announcements, confetti, countdowns. Yours began differently. Yours was a quiet beginning, one I cradled gently in my heart. Not because it was a secret, but because it was sacred. After we lost your big sister in 2023 to an illness she fought hard against, I wasn’t sure how the world would feel again. And then, there was you — a flicker of life that brought both joy and fear, tenderness and quiet strength.

I didn’t tell the world I was carrying you. Everything about you then was just between me and your dad. Not even our family knew - not right away. It wasn’t because I wanted to hide you — it was because I wanted to savor you. I wanted to protect the peace around your arrival, to avoid the noise, the well-meaning comments about "moving on" or "replacing" a loss that could never be replaced.

Now that you're here, safe in my arms, I'm ready to tell your story — piece by piece. This is the first of many pages written just for you.

When Timing Meets Hope

It was a conscious decision not to try for another child while Saab was still fighting to get well. As much as we wanted to grow our family, we knew the timing wasn't right. We had always promised ourselves —that we would give our all as parents to our children. And with Saab needing so much of our attention, energy, and love, we couldn’t imagine dividing that in such a delicate season.

So we waited. We told ourselves that maybe, when Saab turned seven and had fully recovered from her second transplant, we’d try again. That felt like the right time. A future we could plan for.

But the universe had other plans.

In 2023, we lost Saab.

It was, and still is, the most painful thing we've ever been through. Our reason for smiling, the light of our lives, our brave, strong, courageous girl was suddenly gone. And with her, it felt like a part of me disappeared too. I didn’t know how to begin again. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

Then last year, Saab would have turned seven—the very age we had once hoped would mark a new beginning. In the quiet of that milestone, we remembered the plan we once put on hold. Could we still try?

Time, however, was no longer on our side. I was already 38. Physically and emotionally, I was not in the best shape. I knew I couldn’t just leave it all to fate this time. So, with cautious hope and a bit of fear, we sought all the help we can - doctors, specialists, forums, etc. 

There were tests. Countless supplements. Conversations about medicated cycles, IUI, and even IVF. It was a lot. But we were ready to give it everything for that one more chance.

And then, in August—just when we had braced ourselves for a long journey—came the shock of our lives: two pink lines.

Never a Secret, Just Ours

I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my husband—not right away. I kept it to myself for almost a month, quietly guarding that tiny spark of hope. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was both.

Eventually, I told him. And together, we decided to keep the news just between us, at least for a little while longer. We wanted to savor the moment in private, protect it from the noise, the questions, the pressure. We didn’t want to jinx it. We wanted this one to grow in peace.

We went to every check-up, every test, every scan—just the two of us. There was a sacredness to that. Quietly witnessing life take root again, away from the world. And yet, fear was never far. What if we lose this one too? What if this baby is also sick? What if I'm not ready?

Grief, Hope, and Another Chance

But alongside the fear, there was happiness—soft, fragile, but real. The kind of happiness that only comes after deep loss. We had been given another chance to be parents again. A different shape, a different chapter. 

This baby isn’t a replacement for Saab. No one could ever replace her. This baby is an addition—an expansion of the love we already carry, a reminder that life, somehow, keeps going. A gift from heaven from the one we love so dearly. 

By December, during a family gathering, it became harder to hide. My growing belly quietly made the announcement for us. There it was—visible joy, finally allowed to be shared. And so, we told a very few of our loved ones, just less than 10 of them. We let them into the happiness we had been holding gently, protectively, for months.

Not long after, we found out your sex—another girl. Another lovely, baby girl.

Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was a gift. I don’t know. I just know that this is what is meant to happen. 

But after losing a daughter, here comes another one—arriving just when I needed her the most. The kind of love we needed. The quiet hope I needed to keep going. The reason I whispered for in the dark, asking life to give me something—anything—not to give up.

And somehow, she came.

--

To our darling Trixie,

Your name, Trixie, means "bringer of joy" or simply, blessing. And that is what you are.

You came when Mommy desperately needed you. Your presence is a constant reminder that my heart still beats. You are a gift from heaven—love sent by your Ate Yzzy. I believe with all my heart that she handpicked you for us. She knew that Mommy and Daddy still needed her love, and so she sent you. She knew we needed you in our lives. I know you are here because my soul needs you.

You saved me, baby.

I’m sorry that you’ll meet a broken version of Mommy—one who is scared, often anxious, and still grieving. Losing your Ate broke me, and I don’t know how long it will take me to feel whole again—if that’s even possible. But anak, please know this: whatever is left of me, I will give to you. All of it. I will try my very best to make sure you never feel that Mommy is no longer who she used to be. I will love you just as fiercely as I loved your Ate.

Mom is still afraid, but brave enough to face whatever the future holds for us. I hope and pray that what lies ahead is better than what we’ve been through. But whatever happens, please know that Daddy and Mommy will be with you, every step of the way.

Anak, Mommy will have shortcomings. Sometimes, I might look into your eyes and see little traces of your Ate, and I’m sorry if that ever makes you feel compared. Please don’t ever think you are not enough or that you need to fill anyone’s place. You are not a replacement—you are an addition. You are wanted. You are loved beyond measure. You are an answered prayer.

I may cry often—not because of you, but because of all the feelings I carry. I’ll cry from happiness. I’ll cry from fear. I’ll cry because I’ll always wonder what life would’ve been like with two daughters growing up together. I’ll cry because your Ate would have adored you and been your best friend. I'll cry because I am so thankful that you're here and that we have you.

Trixie, Mommy and Daddy love you so, so much. You are the hope we didn’t know how to ask for. You are the reason we keep going. Please be patient with us—we’re still learning to carry joy and grief in the same heart. But for you, we’ll try every single day.

We have all the love in the world for you and Ate, anak!