Dear Landry,

I look at you and see nothing but innocence.

Goodness.

And love.

You're oblivious to the sadness that often surrounds our family.

You don't realize that our world is askew; our compass, lost. And, when you look back at me with those big blue eyes, it's apparent that you have no idea what you've walked into.

No idea that this used to be a perfectly good family.

Perfectly good; not perfect.

There's a difference.

We fought over things like money and how little it seemed we had.

We took things for granted. 

There were tears over toys.

Addie and Isaac and Tripp didn't always get what they wanted, but I'd like to think they got what they needed.

And I'd like to think they knew the difference.

Our house was in a perpetual state of disarray and dinners usually came from a box (sometimes a cereal box even).

So things weren't exactly perfect.

But they were perfectly good.

Only we didn't realize it.
 
And here you are.

You.

***

I asked for a good one.

And I asked Addie to pick one out (not sure she had much say in the matter, but I did ask). On my runs last summer.

I'd get about a half-mile away from home - far enough away so the neighbors couldn't hear the crazy - and I'd yell and scream and ask why, why, why.

And then I'd turn my focus to Addie and I'd say, "Pick out a good one."

A good girl.

Because I just knew.

And here you are.

I promised your sister that I'd tell you just how special she was if she promised to tell you just how special we were (to sweeten the deal, I guess).

And she was.

Is.

Special.

And, all things considered, we aren't too bad either.

Not perfect.

Perfectly good.

Like you.