Morning sun filtered through the dusty blinds of Noah’s nursery, laying long, pale stripes across a crib that had never held him.
I stood in the doorway, unable to step inside, unable to walk away.
Three weeks had passed since my little boy died in the hospital.
His little outfits were folded on the changing table where I had left them.
My little boy died in the hospital.
The diapers sat unopened.
The stroller waited in its box by the closet.
Thomas and I assembled it once for a practice run down the hallway, then packed it away again.
Continue on the next page:
