My forever baby would have turned 13.

There are sentences you never imagine yourself writing. This is one of them.

Time is supposed to make things softer. That is what people say. And in some ways, it does. Life fills back in. You laugh again. You build a family. You make new memories. You move forward, not because you stop loving, but because you must.

But when I look at the calendar and see the number 13 beside Everlee’s name, it feels like my heart stumbles.

Thirteen.

A teenager.
A girl with opinions.
A voice.
A laugh.
A life I never got to meet.

And yet, I carry her every day.

Everlee was stillborn.
There are no first steps, no school photos, no scraped knees or bedtime stories. But her presence in my life is enormous. She changed the shape of my heart. She changed the person I became. She changed the way I love, the way I mother, and the way I understand grief.

She taught me that love does not require time.
She taught me that motherhood begins long before a cry is heard.
She taught me that some bonds exist outside of this world’s rules.

She is my forever baby, and yet, here we are, marking a teenage birthday.

Grief is not linear. It does not fade politely into the background. It evolves.

In the early years, the pain was sharp and all consuming. Breathing felt like work. Existing felt heavy. Every milestone that passed without her felt like another reminder of everything I lost.

Now, years later, the grief feels quieter, but deeper.
It sneaks up on me in unexpected moments.
It lives in the spaces between joy.

Because here is the truth. I did not stop loving Everlee when my life moved forward. I simply learned how to hold her alongside everything else.

I am the mother of three living, breathing, miraculous children.
They are my rainbow babies, born after the storm.

They are loud, messy, funny, frustrating, beautiful, and real.
They fill my home with chaos and my heart with joy.

And still, there is room for Everlee.

My love for her does not take away from them.
My love for them does not replace her.

Both can exist at the same time.

I can be deeply grateful for the life I have and still ache for the life I lost.

Thirteen means I have been carrying this grief for more than a decade.
It means my life has grown and changed around a wound that never truly heals.

It means Everlee would be stepping into adolescence and I am left imagining a girl I never got to know.

It means I have survived something that once felt unsurvivable.

It means love does not end when a heartbeat does.

Everlee is not here in the way I long for. But she is here in the way I love fiercely. In the way I cherish my children. In the way I notice the fragility and beauty of life.

She is in the way I pause.
In the way I feel deeply.
In the way I mother.

And as I stand on the edge of this 13th birthday, I realize something.

Forever is not about how long someone lives.
Forever is about how deeply they are woven into your soul.

Happy 13th birthday, sweet girl.
You are still my baby.
You always will be.