Well, it’s official now, isn’t it? A week ago we were pregnant, but today now not so much. I know you were hoping against hope — your heart even prayed a little, I think, even if the rest of you doesn’t even believe. Your scientist’s mind wanted the math on our side, but the numbers, in the end, didn’t lie (and I know this is little consolation).
There is no longer a blastocyst, an embryo, whatever: dare I call it a baby? The other day, when you pressed your mouth against me and spoke, we thought something was inside us. Perhaps even by then, it was no longer there. But still you spoke (a bit too high I think, more to digesting Twizzlers and a latte maybe, but just as sweetly as if it hadn’t been my stomach). I loved it anyway, and your optimism, wherever it may flow from. It is the thing that keeps me sane through this. And the jokes, too, which is why I find calling what has happened a way “to clean all the cobwebs out from down there” altogether funny and not at all offensive. That’s how it goes in this house: a little humor goes a long way.
We are all disappointed, I know, even the funny furry one. But we have each other. Today is probably the saddest day of my life. The day I married you was the happiest. I choose the happiest.
Forever and ever,