Something broke inside me.
Because suddenly I remembered.
I had asked for him.
More than once.
But every time Brian had said:
“Rest.”
“Don’t upset yourself.”
“They’re taking care of him.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
His voice had covered my own until I could no longer hear myself.
I looked down at the empty car seat.
I had bought it two months earlier.
I remembered standing in the store, touching the soft blue fabric, imagining a sleeping baby inside it.
Now it was empty because I had been convinced that empty was easier.
The nurse whispered:
“You still have time.”
Brian turned to me.
“No, we already decided.”
That word again.
We.
But I had never felt less like part of a “we” in my life.
I looked at him and asked,
“Did you ever love him?”
Brian’s face changed.
He didn’t answer.
And that silence told me the truth.
