Eleven: Maya

Tuesday, September 29, 2026 / Lakeway, Texas

Maya,

This letter is for you. Just you.

Let me begin with a confession: I started writing these letters when your big sister Ada was born. All of the first ten letters were written to her. Then life, work, and moving got in the way, and I stopped writing for a long time. By the time you came into the world, the pages of this notebook had been empty for a while. If one day you read these letters and ask, "But why didn't you write to me, Dad?" you will be right to ask. This letter is partly an answer to that question and partly an apology.

But know this: not writing to you did not mean I was not thinking about you. Quite the opposite—every day with you was so full that there was no time left to write.

Do you know what your name means? In Turkish, maya is that tiny thing that makes dough rise and turns milk into yogurt: yeast, or a starter culture. You add a pinch of maya to a handful of dough, wait a while, and the whole dough changes, grows, comes alive. There is only a little maya, but its effect is great. There is also a Turkish expression, "a person's maya." It means a person's essence, their character, what makes them who they are.

That is exactly how you joined our family. We were a family of three; you arrived, and everything changed. Our home became fuller, noisier, more alive. More than anything, it was through you that your mother and I learned that love is something that multiplies rather than divides. Your big sister Ada learned to be a big sister through you. You became this family's maya, my daughter.

Scientists say that second children see the world from a slightly different place. When you were born, it was not only a mother and a father waiting for you, but a big sister watching you with curiosity, wanting to touch you, perhaps feeling a little jealous, too. You began life with a companion from the very first day. That is your good fortune. But remember this just as clearly: you do not have to follow in your sister's footsteps. You have the right to find your own way, take your own steps, and have your own falls and recoveries.

In the tenth letter, I told your sister about falling and getting back up. I will tell you the same thing, but with one addition: do not let anyone compare you to your sister, a friend, or anyone else. Being compared makes people forget their own maya. You are nobody's smaller version, nobody's copy. You are Maya, and that is enough.

Now you go to school every morning, just like your sister. You are learning letters and words. Perhaps very soon you will be able to read this letter yourself. When you do, you may not understand some of the words; that is all right. I am here, and we can read it together. As I told your sister in the first letter, you do not have to adopt my point of view. These letters are only meant to give you a sense of direction. You will find the rest yourself.

After this one, I will write the letters to you and your sister together, but every now and then there will be letters that belong only to you. I promise.

I love you so much, Maya. And I have since the very first day.

With love,
Dad.