So the baby is not coming after all, at least the doctors are "pretty sure". I had only known I was pregnant for a few days. I didn’t tell anyone except for Mark and Liam because I was bleeding, after all, and I wasn’t sure this pregnancy would last. I wasn’t sure, but I was convinced it would. But for whatever reason, this one wasn’t supposed to come. I don’t know why.
It wasn't much. It was nameless, genderless. It probably wasn't even a heartbeat. It was the bassinet I hadn’t bought yet. It was the imaginary bunk beds for the older children. It was the reserve in our savings account for medical expenses. It was the future spates of jealousy from Kyle being cranky over having to share me. It was Kyle’s hand-me-down clothes that would have fit perfectly.
I think that’s what twinges a little. I'm not anguished or despondent right now, and I feel lucky that the miscarriage didn't happen later when it would have been much harder. But here's why I sometimes feel mopey lately. “It” will always be “it”. And I hope I remember “it”, but now “it” will only ever be a fantasy, a figure in my imagination of what might have been.