Months later, there is no forgetting.

These months that I had planned to spend preparing the room, shopping with mom and friends for maternity clothes, reading expectant mother books, cruising WebMD for articles and advice, watching my body change and grow—be the mother of our child—were now awash with sudden bouts of sadness and longing.

I want to rewind.

That drink. That toast. A dark and stormy. How appropriate.

We still had hope then.

I hear his footsteps, but keep my eyelids shut in semi-slumber. He warms my temple with a goodbye kiss. I catch a whiff of coffee.

Does he hope I’d wake? Is that why he lingers beside me?

Then, I listen to the faraway sounds of the hallway closet door opening and closing, a pause while he puts on his coat, keys settling into pockets, the front door squeaking open and closing snug, the deadbolt clicking into place.


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