I told her I was pregnant. She was so excited. She started drawing me with a baby in my tummy. Every day, a new drawing. Every drawing, a little piece of her excitement.
Then I lost the baby in June. We told her. She didn’t understand fully. She kept drawing me and the baby. I reminded her again. She didn’t stop. She was almost 4. It made sense, but it still hurt.
Weeks passed. I kept trying to get pregnant. My first period after the miscarriage came. Tests stayed negative. My hope faded, then flickered. I remembered my first three pregnancies had happened right away. Why not now? Why not this time?
Today she came to me with her crayons. She drew me again, a baby in my tummy. I felt a lump in my throat. My chest ached. I told her, “Remember, the baby is gone.”
She looked at me and said quietly, “I am pretending the baby is alive.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to cry. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to scream at the universe. My heart hurt for her, and for me. I felt guilty for hoping, scared for the future, and broken from the past.
I don’t know what went wrong. I’ve had losses before. I’ve had my daughter. And now, I am left staring at her drawing, knowing she is holding on to something I lost.
I held her hand and said no to the pretend baby. But inside, I wanted to tell her yes to everything. I wanted to protect her, and myself, from this quiet, unbearable grief.
