"They tell me it happened during my delivery – a tragic medical error where the doctors cut a major artery in your stomach. You went into cardiac arrest from internal bleeding. Such clinical words for something that tore our family apart." From a Seattle high-rise, a son writes letters to the mother he lost the day after his birth. These aren't just stories about growing up with an alcoholic father who drowned his grief in Bud Light, or about the grandmother who became an anchor when everything else was adrift. They're conversations with a ghost – about the life that bloomed from her goodbye, about siblings old enough to remember her voice, and about a baby who cried for six months, missing a heartbeat he'd only known from the inside. Raw, unflinching, and deeply human, these letters paint a portrait of loss, survival, and the peculiar courage it takes to keep living when you begin with an ending.