The loneliness of 1am is a palpable force in darkness. I lay motionless beside my husband with damp hands resting on my belly; the rage of losing is fire in my gut. The world breathes and I watch its greenery undulating under a white sky. Needles prickle my forearms. A felt hat on the nightstand, silently watching as I fall apart.
The extra bedroom is my constant companion, stuck to my face. My vision is blurred. We moved here to have space for the child the world owes to us. Clothing is piled on the floor and a large shrub in the window obscures the view of the street. I hung a picture of owls on the otherwise bare walls and the hope it represents twists like a knife at my throat.
In two weeks, we travel. The people that love us are scattered around the country but none of them are here. We feel the weight of isolation; I know it’s unhealthy but I don’t want to talk to anyone about their kids and my lack-therefore-of. There are a thousand miracle stories out there that stand in stark contrast to my own tales of woe. They feed me but do not sustain me. I’m supposed to be grateful, but instead I’m bitter and free.