The day is finally here. 29 weeks and 1 day, the day Anja died.

I fight back tears while E and I watch her morning ‘shows,’ remembering that morning last January, feeling Baby Sister roll around inside me for what I never imagined would be the last time. I can’t imagine how I will get through this day; probably with my hand never leaving my belly and as much of myself turned inward toward my son as I can spare on a busy day with E.

There are two brand-newborn babies and 3 pregnant women at E’s daycare. I picture myself walking in there on Monday, or next week, or the week after, with an empty belly and the hollow face of grief I wore last year back where I sometimes think it must belong, while everyone else gets their baby, and I stand aside, again, hurting, bare and alone.

The snowdrops are all blooming, crocuses starting and even the daffodils have pushed through the earth, almost ready to open in their bright bursts of yellow. Another spring without her, and I am desperately hanging on to her little brother: don’t leave; don’t go; please don’t die.

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