Two Weeks After Our Baby Died, My 8-Year-Old Whispered, “Mom, She Isn’t Gone—I Saw What Daddy Did at the Hospital”
I did not.
That remains true.
I can hate that fact without hating him forever.
I also have something he did not have.
The moment I first saw her photograph.
The moment Toby and I placed her footprints beside the blue puppy.
The conversations with her name spoken aloud.
Our grief stories overlap.
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