Châu Sa Trần Aguiar

My girl,

You were born on a Wednesday afternoon in November 2024 at Family Hospital in Da Nang. I held you in the hospital until you calmed down. You slept on my chest. That's one of my clearest memories from those early days.

You came into the world on a new moon in Scorpio. That probably means nothing to you unless you find yourself curious about such things one day. What it meant to me was that you arrived at a beginning, and you looked at the room like you already knew it.

You were my quiet one. Where your brother filled a room with sound and movement, you watched. You read faces before you could speak. When you smiled you meant it completely. When you didn't, you meant that too.

I called you Meo. Your mother called you Meo. Everyone called you Meo. You answered to it like it was the only name that mattered.

I don't know exactly who you are now, as you're reading this. But I know who you were before I couldn't be there. You were loved deeply, held often, and seen clearly. That doesn't leave a person. Whatever you've become, those first months were yours and they were good.

You're half Goan Catholic, half Vietnamese. You carry both lines. Both are beautiful and both are yours.

I love you Meo. I always have. I always will.

Daddy