There is a ghost in our house. No, there are many ghosts. There is the ghost of our daughter, of Baby Sister, of my happy belly and all our dreams. There is the ghost of the mama I was, unburdened by grief and tears. There is the ghost of our imagined future: two girls on Christmas morning, two girls snuggling in under the covers on Sunday morning, two girls getting dressed to go for dinner at Gran’s. Two girls. There is the ghost of the big sister in waiting; the role that E was practicing and developing and that she no longer gets to perform. There is the ghost of the father who could not wait to get home to his gaggle of girls. We went so quickly toward that future of girls. We embraced it so fully and folded it so seamlessly into our understanding of our family and now we are so suddenly one girl less. It is not only her that we have lost; it is a part of all of us – individually and together. There are holes in all our dreams. There are ghosts in all our rooms.

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