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

You need to take responsibility. Victoria spat. Sophia is eight months along and radiant. Radiant. And here you are destroying what God gave you because you couldn’t handle someone else’s happiness.

The crulest part was the nursery upstairs. I’d spent 3 weeks painting it sunshine yellow because we’d wanted to be surprised. Gender neutral didn’t mean colorless, I told Ryan, showing him paint swatches with names like Morning Glory and Buttercream. I’d hung tiny white curtains with dancing elephants and spent an entire Saturday assembling a changing table that came with 47 separate pieces and instructions written by someone who clearly hated humanity.

The drawers were full of impossibly small clothes. Onesies with sayings like daddy’s little princess and mommy’s miracle. I bought three packages of newborn socks because they were so tiny and perfect, each pair smaller than my thumb. There was a mobile with soft musical notes that played Brahms’s lullabi and a rocking chair where I’d planned to feed Emma in those quiet 3:00 a.m. moments that every mother told me I’d treasure despite the exhaustion.

Ryan knew all of this. He’d helped hang the mobile, complaining about the assembly instructions, but smiling when it finally worked. He’d caught me organizing the sock drawer one evening and kissed my forehead, saying, “She’s going to be so loved.”