When I lost the baby, I was already weak. But my husband said I must have fallen on purpose.

When I lost the baby, I was already weak. But my husband said I must have fallen on purpose. “You never wanted this baby,” he screamed. His mother said I was jealous of my pregnant sister-in-law. They held me down as he kicked me. I couldn’t scream. I left bleeding in the middle of the night. 2 years later, he saw me.

The blood soaked through the hospital pad in less than 20 minutes. I sat on our pristine white sectional sofa, the one Ryan had insisted we buy because it would photograph well for guests, watching crimson stains spread across Italian leather that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

Each cramp felt like my body was trying to turn itself inside out, a physical reminder that Emma was gone. Emma. We’d named her Emma Rose after Ryan’s grandmother. I’d whispered that name to my swollen belly for months, promising her stories and lullabibies and Saturday morning pancakes shaped like butterflies. Now she was just medical waste in some hospital disposal unit, and I was sitting here bleeding her memory onto expensive furniture.