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UncleDamien

For Leo Stanly Crawford‚ born in 2003 My name is Damien‚ and I am your biological uncle. I do not know whether Leo is still your name‚ and I do not know whether you will ever find this‚ but I wanted to leave something behind in case you ever go looking for where you came from. You were born about three months premature on the same day I came home from rehab. I went to three different hospitals trying to find you. When I finally did‚ you were in the NICU‚ impossibly small. You stayed there for nearly two months‚ and I visited you about twice a week. I spent so much time standing beside your incubator with my hand through the opening‚ holding your tiny hand‚ that nurses sometimes assumed I was your father. You grew into a beautiful little boy with bright red hair‚ blue eyes‚ fair skin‚ and a huge smile. You were very easy to recognize. I can still picture your face. When you came home from the hospital‚ your parents were living with me. I worked overnight and usually got home around seven or eight in the morning. A lot of mornings you would already be awake and crying while everyone else was still asleep. I would pick you up‚ change your diaper‚ make you a bottle‚ sing to you‚ talk to you‚ and play with you until your parents woke up. That became our routine for nearly two years. You were my first nephew‚ and I loved you more than I can really explain. In my heart‚ you were as good as my own. Eventually I moved several hundred miles away. We spoke on the phone a few times afterward‚ although you were too young to really understand what moving meant. You kept asking me when I was coming over. I still remember that. Years later‚ things in your childhood became very difficult and you and your siblings were taken into state custody. My mother encouraged me to pursue custody. I was about 25 years old at the time and was barely able to support myself. I did not believe I was capable of taking responsibility for five children and giving all of you the stability you deserved. I have thought about that decision many times over the years. I understand that adoption paperwork may have left you with the impression that no relatives wanted you. If that is what you were told‚ I need you to know that it was not true. I wanted you very much. Wanting you and being capable of raising you were not the same thing. I wish they had been. Your adoption was closed‚ and eventually I lost every way of knowing where you were‚ what name you were given‚ what you looked like‚ or what kind of man you became. I have spent years wondering about you. I have wondered what you look like now. I have wondered whether your red hair stayed bright or got darker as you grew up. I have wondered whether your eyes are still as blue as they were when you were a boy. I have wondered what kind of person you became‚ what makes you laugh‚ what you care about‚ what you are good at‚ whether you are happy‚ and whether life has been kind to you. More than anything‚ I have hoped that the family who adopted you knew how special you were and loved you the way you deserved to be loved. I am writing this because I do not know if we will ever find each other. Maybe you will look for your biological family one day and find me while I am still here. I hope so. But if you find this after I am gone‚ I do not want silence to be the only answer you receive. There was an uncle who remembered you. There was an uncle who loved you. There was an uncle who never stopped wondering what became of you. And before courts‚ social workers‚ adoption papers‚ new names‚ or any of the other things that may have shaped your story‚ there was a tiny premature baby in an incubator. I held your hand. I loved you then. I still do. Uncle Damien