“How do you think I feel? I’m the one who carried him. He was alive inside me, kicking and moving, and then he came out into the world and… he was gone.”
“So, what? You want to keep the nursery waiting for his ghost? Like some kind of sick memorial?” He waved one hand in the air. “This is exactly why I can’t stay here anymore.”
He picked up his suitcase and walked toward the door.
At the threshold, he stopped.
“I called a realtor,” he said. “I want to list the house.”
“No!”
“God, Kate! You can’t stay in a place like this alone.”
He glanced back at me.
That single look carried countless accusations and judgments.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my things next week,” he said.
“You can’t take my home!” I yelled after him as he walked away.
The front door shut behind him with a quiet, final click.
I entered Noah’s room.
Sitting on the floor beside the crib, I rested my forehead against its wooden bars.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered. “I would’ve given anything to keep you here.”
The mobile above the crib shifted gently in the air from the vent.
That evening, I ate crackers while standing over the kitchen sink.
I left the television off.
I ignored my mother’s third call.
On the way to bed, I passed the nursery without looking inside.
I lay down on Thomas’s side of the mattress.
No tears came, but neither did sleep.
The drive home from the cemetery had become a blur.
Most days since the funeral felt the same.
I took the longer road past the shopping center because remaining inside the house felt like slowly drowning.
That was when I noticed her.
A young woman sat on the pavement outside a grocery store.
She had a baby with her.
A cardboard sign rested against her leg.
The tiny infant slept against her chest in a carrier whose worn straps looked close to breaking.
I parked three rows away and simply watched.
Perhaps an hour passed. Maybe longer.
Time had become as difficult to hold onto as everything else.
Then my mind made a choice my heart had not yet accepted.
Eventually, I drove home.
I passed the closed nursery door six times before forcing myself to open it.
I stepped inside quietly and leaned against the nursing recliner I had bought for Noah.
“You’re never coming home,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’ll never get to be your mom, but I saw another baby today who might need your things. I want to help them… I hope you won’t mind.”
The mobile above his crib moved slightly.
I began packing.
The boxed stroller went into my car.
I filled bags with the giraffe blanket, diapers, and onesies.
I kept the hat my mother had knitted and the dinosaur onesie Noah had worn in the hospital—the only clothing he had ever worn besides the “going home” outfit buried with him.
—
When I returned, the young woman slowly lifted her head.
Her eyes carried the guarded emptiness of someone who had learned not to expect kindness.
“I brought some things,” I said through the rolled-down window. “For your baby.”
“I’m not asking for any.”
She carefully rose, holding the sleeping infant against her body.
I opened my trunk.
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