My time machine is getting all revved up to travel back in time 30 years, and I’m not sure if I’ll be better or worse for the journey.

Marissa turns 30 today, and even seeing the number in print feels somewhat surreal.  Both pregnant with her and delivering her at 23, I was a young mom whose life and purpose began at 7:21 a.m. exactly three decades ago.

I’m not going to dwell or perseverate on my loss; instead I will say that, albeit for too short a time, my 24 years with Marissa brought me more joy than some people get in a lifetime.  Her illuminating smile, her fastidious work ethic, her subtle and gentle way of getting what she wanted, and her unwavering strength and tenacity during an unrelenting illness have permanently earned her a secure place on the Supergirl mantle.

I’m still numb from the trauma of losing her, and I pray that she is happy and healthy.  Perhaps she’s a mom herself now, and, if so, I hope she might pause and think of me.  Though her dad has rewritten history, may she revisit reality and remember who I was.  Most of all, however, may she feel my love and know that, no matter what has transpired, that love will always be hers.