Daddy's Journal (Letters to Renesmee):
A series of letters from Edward to his unborn daughter, based on the same canon as my 'Unforeseen Events' series and 'Little Angel of Forks'. All vamps and relationships remain as the original, but I have added some AU/OOC elements to Stephenie Meyer's universe. Rated T for mature themes.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is merely coincidental.
Chapter 1: The Meaning of Your Existence
Thursday, August 24th, 2005,
Your Auntie Alice knew I would like to write to you, because I'm a sentimental sappy date, so she gave us this journal. Pretty nice, isn't it, with the hand-tooled leather and gold-embossed titles? It smells attractively of fresh paper and leather right now, but it will probably be well-worn by the time you wrap your hands around it. I hope you will enjoy having it someday when you're old enough to understand it.
It's all because of your mother, really, that you're on the way. She forces me, as your Uncle Jazz says, to colour outside the lines. Bella is undeniably the strongest person I have ever met. The purest, loveliest creature I've come across in my very long lifetime. She's stubborn. She's sometimes impatient. She can be subversive. She fights like a demon from the darkest circle of Hell if you push her hard enough, or threaten those she loves. And the feisty minx is not afraid of anything, thank God. If she were any different, you would not exist, because she and I would never have been together.
But her story is in another journal, that I'm sure you'll get to read, too. This one is for you. Your story, of how you came to be.
Assuming how thoroughly you are going to know us (and how revolted you will probably be by our affectionate behaviour) it will probably come as no surprise if I admit to you that your mother and I were not precisely chaste during the last few weeks leading up to our wedding. Although I think we both should get an award for upholding antiquated, Victorian standards before that. So it must be admitted that we did a little intimate touching* that would have had your Grandpa Charlie using his gun, had it come to his attention. We spent almost two years slipping under his radar, just to be platonic. There was no hot and heavy behaviour going on, no matter what your Grandma Renee might say.
Yes, Grandpa Charlie did pull the service revolver on us, once. And he didn't know the half of what was really going on. Had he known, he would have actually fired the gun. Yes, I'm snickering right now. So sue me. I'm 17, you know.
I hope you and I will be closer than Charlie and your mother were, and you will be able to talk to me, when life happens to you.
Bella and I were insanely, profoundly, irrevocably in love with each other. One thing led to another, and we thought we were behaving ourselves pretty nicely, waiting to go all the way until we were married, and yet, you and God surprised us. In all likelihood, you were made the first time I touched your mother (July 19th, FYI), so don't go listening to some boy telling you that you can't get pregnant the first time, or that you can go pretty far without any risk. Truth is, I barely touched her, and here you are.
No jokes about that, please. You have a lot less hang-ups than I do. My parents gave me an awful lot of ideas about what was proper. All of them were ingrained until your mother started chipping away at them. Your parents, on the other hand, are rebellious in comparison.
Don't even try the 'everybody smokes dope and so did you, Daddy' approach. I will not be impressed.
*Please note, child of mine, that on a certain day, if you bring home some fellow and tell me you're so in love and just have to be with him, and you hold my 'confession' over my head, one or both of you are going to end up turned inside out and run through your mother's infamous chipper-shredder. What's good for me is most certainly not automatically good for you. And any young upstart, no matter what his species, who dares to show up at my door had better silly-well be worthy of you.
Back to the story.
So, there we were, going along our cheerful way, nursing secret, impossible fantasies of becoming parents. Hiding as best we could from each other the fact that we would have given our eye teeth to make each other parents. To see each other holding a tiny baby. To fill arms which, by design, must remain barren. And I was stubbornly convinced that you could never exist. That it was beyond God's power to salvage somebody as damaged, useless, and intrinsically wicked as me. Why would He want to? There were more deserving people out there.
And your headstrong, beautiful, rebellious mother kept after me. "You are worthy. God loves you. You are good," she would say. And I was quiet. But inside, I scoffed. I was arrogant. I was resigned. And I was so unhappy.
Then, something happened to crack me. She thawed me out, your mother. She was my faith, and she was my rock. She was my Heaven, too. One day, I decided that whether God loved me or not, I would thank Him aloud for letting this wretch have your mother. And when I thanked Him, I made a wish.
It wasn't a prayer. I don't ask Him for things for myself. I don't deserve any. I never pray for myself. I'm not human. I'm only the dog under the table, and I'm happy with whatever scraps He's willing to throw me. I pray for your mother. I pray for you. I pray for other people I love. But not for myself.
I wished, never expecting to get noticed.
It was only a wish.
I wished for you.
And God, who can do whatever He wants with anybody in existence, regardless of species, gave me you. He smacked this arrogant, hopeless, faithless, stupid, useless creature upside the head hard enough to knock me on my butt and rattle my teeth. He reminded me that He's in charge. He reminded me that nobody can hide from Him. And He reminded me of what my mother, Elizabeth, God rest her soul, told me when I was just a kid: nothing that exists outside of our own skin can separate us from God. Nothing in Heaven, nothing on Earth, nothing in Hell. Not even venom.
The only thing that can separate us from God, is our own stubbornness and lack of faith. Our own fear. Our willingness to stay within our comfort zone, rather than take the risk of getting hurt. But I'll tell you something precious girl, that it took me a good swat on the ear from God to figure out.
God has limitless power. You can't tell Him what to do. You can't tell Him what He 'should' or 'shouldn't;. You can't tell Him He can't do something. You can't tell Him something's impossible.
With God, all things are possible. You, Renesmee Carlie Masen-Cullen, are living proof of that. My personal miracle. That's you.
Be smarter than your old man, and don't forget God is in charge.
Yes, you're developing pretty fast, which is a little unnerving for a worrywart like me. Your mother takes everything pretty much in stride, as usual. Anyway: pertinent facts. Your home is now measuring 12 inches from mother's pubic bone to the fundus, so we are going on the assumption that you're developed to the equivalent of 12 human weeks. That means your due date is November 20th.
Two days ago, you announced your presence by becoming a bump on Mom's normally flat tummy. She complained to me tonight that she couldn't get into her underwear (That's fine with me, not that you want to know anything about that). And Mom is taking on a lot of new characteristics. Her skin is now like mine. She's thirsty. Her eyes have changed and her hearing is much better. She can run and jump and climb and we're having a ball with that.
She stopped peeing today, and barfed up her last human meal, which was fried chicken, fried mandioca, onion rings and a salad. Oh, and tea. She never made it to dessert, which was one of the chocolate-filled buns I normally make for her. They, and the cinnamon buns they evolved from, were your mother's favourites. She also had ice cream with whipped cream and strawberries today, that we made together in an old coffee can. It had chocolate chips, cocoa and coffee in it. Lots of sugar. Your mother had a real sweet tooth.
Someday, if you can tolerate human food, I will make it with you.
But Bella still blushes, and it's so lovely. I will miss that, when she crosses over. Her sense of smell is weak, she still trips on flat ground, and her heart beats. But she's so much more durable, that I know you were designed by God. Because God wouldn't put you inside a vessel that was too weak to hold you.
You were, are, and shall ever be, desperately wanted. You will be loved and cherished. You are filling arms that were devoid of hope. How cool is that?
Don't expect to be spoiled, either, even if you are Alice and Rosalie's niece. You, unlike the children of this generation, are going to have good manners, and a respectable upbringing. So there!
Your life is going to be remarkable. You are so loved, already, and your bones haven't even been knit together, yet. I can't wait to see you. I can't wait to have you in my arms. To see you in your mother's embrace.
Admittedly, I already know what you look like, courtesy of your psychic Auntie. But it's not the same seeing you in Alice's thoughts as it will be seeing you face to face. Touching you. Smelling you. Hearing you. Feeling your weight and warmth. And watching everybody we know celebrate your life, along with me and your Mom.
Loving you always, and living in hope,
Edward Anthony Masen-Cullen