For weeks after Anja died, I replayed this day in my head. The last Sunday before she died. It was such a perfectly happy, perfectly normal day. A lazy morning snuggle in bed, feeling the baby kick and roll. Apple pancakes for breakfast. A long walk in the forest, which was full of mist and mossy branches and puddles to jump in. At one point, a stream passes underneath our path and we played a game, dropping leaves and sticks in on one side and dashing over to the other to see them emerge and bob down around the bend and further into the forest. One big stick got stuck and created a dam and I stepped in to dislodge it only to find out that there was a big leak in my rubber boots and my feet were drenched. We laughed about it, even though my feet were frozen. E thought it was particularly hilarious when I took my boot off and tipped it over and poured out a little river of water. She got tired and R carried her home on his shoulders. We had lunch and then I walked downtown to run some errands. That was the day I bought a 3-pack of little pink onesies on sale at the Gap. We weren’t going to buy much for Anja because we had so many hand-me-downs from E, but these were so cheap and pink and little. After I finished my errands, I went to sit and have a tea and write in my journal. I wrote about how happy I felt, how excited I was to be at the point I was at in my pregnancy; I wrote, and I doubt I will ever read these words without a shiver: one day soon a new little person will arrive and will disrupt our lives in ways we cannot even imagine. I meant it in the sense that I’d better hurry up and finish the final chapter of my dissertation. It reads so differently, now. It was the last thing I wrote in my journal before she died 3 days later.