If you're reading this then it means that I have died. Hopefully enough time has gone by that those words don't hurt as much as they once did. Hopefully your father read his letter and did what I asked of him. Hopefully you're getting this at the right time.

I wanted to be there for you, to tell you the things that are contained in the letters you're about to read. I wanted to hold your hand on the swing and tell you about how I met your dad, how cute he was when he was young and nervous, how proud I was of him as he aged.

I wanted to show you that love does work. Love does last. We, your dad and I, we were going to be the examples for you. Hopefully he is still an example for you.

There is so much to tell you. Right now you are three months old and asleep in this bed next to me. You are soft and beautiful. You have your dad's smile.

I hope you never get this letter. I hope I live to see you get married... to a man, to a woman, to a whatever, I don't care, as long as whoever is holding your hand loves you half as much as your dad loves me, that's all that matters.

These letters, the ones after this one, were written by your dad and I when we lived apart and first started dating. We had email and texting but he insisted on writing. He said that seeing my handwriting would mean more than an email, even if it took longer. We did email and text, but the important stuff, the real stuff, it got written down. Your dad was right about that. He was right about a lot of things, even if he never thought he was.

What's not in the letters is how we met.

I hope I can tell you this story.

It was before boarding a plane. I was going back to Iowa, back home to my parents after a week visiting my best friend. I saw your dad sitting on bench, his feet against the window in front of him. He was looking outside.

If you look at most people, when they're sitting by themselves, they're not smiling. If they're doing nothing, their faces are blank. Your dad, he was smiling. He had the happiest look on his face. That's what I noticed first.

I forgot about him, though, when I got on my phone to call my mom, your grandma. She's so proud of you, you know? Only three months and she talks about you like you hung the moon.

We got in line to board the plane. He was in front of me. He took a step and I stepped into his spot. He smelled like cookies. I've never, ever smelled a guy who smelled like cookies. I breathed in, deeply, and then noticed what he was holding.

He still has it. I just checked, it's on the top shelf of his closet. I bet, when, if, you read this it'll still be there.

It was this bright pink backpack. It had a Lisa Frank unicorn on it. Do you know who Lisa Frank is? I hope you do.

I looked at it started laughing. I couldn't help myself. He smelled like cookies and had a unicorn back pack and so he was awesome. He turned around, smiled at me.