Three weeks after burying my newborn son, I gave everything I had bought for him to a mother in need with a baby. For the first time since he died, I slept through the night. But before dawn, dozens of strollers littered my lawn—and what I found inside them made absolutely no sense.
The morning light filtered through the dusty blinds of Noah's room, casting long, pale lines across the crib that had never held him.
I remained on the threshold, unable to enter and equally unable to leave.
Three weeks had passed since my little one died in the hospital.
Her tiny clothes were still folded on the changing table exactly where she had placed them.
The diaper packages remained sealed.
Her stroller was in a box next to the wardrobe.
Thomas and I had assembled it once and pushed it down the corridor as practice before putting it away again.
Now Thomas had also left.
A week earlier, I walked into our bedroom and found him packing a suitcase.
"Are you really leaving me?" I asked him.
"I can't stay here," he replied. "Every time I walk through that door, I feel like I'm being buried alive."
—He was your son, Thomas.
She zipped it up.
—So you're leaving… him. Me. Two weeks after we buried him.
He looked at the ground.
"I asked you to empty the baby's room," she said quietly. "Weeks ago. You refused."
"It's an empty room, Kate. It's an empty room and it's killing us both."
—How do you think I feel? I'm the one who carried him inside. He was alive inside me, kicking and moving, and then he came into the world and… he left.
"So what? You want to keep the room waiting for her ghost? Like some kind of sick memorial?" She waved a hand in the air. "This is exactly why I can't stay here anymore."
He picked up his suitcase and walked towards the door.
At the threshold, he stopped.
"I called a real estate agency," he said. "I want to put the house up for sale."
-No!
—God, Kate! You can't stay alone in a place like that.
He glanced at me over his shoulder.
That single glance carried countless accusations and judgments.
"I'll come back for the rest of my things next week," he said.
"You can't take my home away!" I shouted as he walked away.
The front door closed behind him with a silent, final click.
I went into Noah's room.
Sitting on the floor next to the crib, I rested my forehead against its wooden railings.
"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered. "I would have given anything to have you here."
The mobile above the crib moved gently with the air from the ventilation grille.
That night, I ate saltine crackers standing by the kitchen sink.
I left the television off.
I ignored my mother's third call.
On my way to bed, I passed by the baby's room without looking inside.
I lay down on Thomas's side of the mattress.
No tears came, but neither did sleep.
The return journey from the cemetery had become blurry.
Most days since the funeral felt the same.
I took the longer route through the mall because staying inside the house was like slowly drowning.
That's when I noticed her.
