She doesn't know you yet. She doesn't know what any of it costs, or what it's worth — the sleepless years, the version of herself she'll set down to make room for you, the specific way you'll say her name when you're four and when you're forty. Right now you're just a maybe. A held breath.
What do you tell her? Maybe it's simple — thank you. Maybe it's an apology for something that hasn't happened yet, for a fight at seventeen you both still carry, for the years you went quiet just to prove you could stand on your own. Maybe you don't warn her about any of the hard parts, because you already know how it turns out, and it turns out to be you.
Say it anyway. She can't hear you. That was never really the point.