Mum has called every day. So have Cleo and Lily. I don’t want to talk to anyone, so I tell Winter no each time he tries to get me to talk to them. The sad look in his eyes when I tell him no makes me want to hide under the blanket. I hate seeing that sad look in his eyes. It’s one thing for me to be sad, but it takes chunks of my soul knowing he is.
“I’ve gotta go into the clubhouse tomorrow,” he says as we lie together on the third day after we lost our baby. He’s stayed home with me since then, and I’ve dreaded the day when he has to leave me. But I know he can’t stay here forever. Neither of us can, even though it’s exactly what I want to do. I’ve barely left our bed, and I don’t think I ever want to.
I roll over to him so I can be close to his warmth, to his love. Spreading my arm across his body, I say, “You go do what you have to. I’m good here.”
His strong arm comes around me. “You are far from good, angel. I won’t be long at the clubhouse. Maybe you could facetime with your mum while I’m gone.”
; I’ve spoken with Mum once since the miscarriage, and I know I should talk to her again, but it all feels too hard. However, that’s not fair to her. She’s my mother and I know she’s hurting for me. “I will.” If I were a mother, I’d want to comfort my child as she went through this.
Oh God.
I’ll never be a mother.
I’ll never have a child to comfort.
I’ll never have a child to love.
I grip Winter’s T-shirt as fresh tears slide down my cheeks. “Why?” The word rips from me, a jagged slice of emotion, and I sob into his chest as more words tear from me. “Why do we not get to have a child?”
He hugs me tighter. Winter thinks he can protect me from anything, but he can’t. He can try all he likes, but he can never protect me from the harsh reality that I will never bear a child. I will never be a mother to my own flesh and blood.
We lie together in silence for a long time. I think about the room we started preparing for our child. About the cot and the sheets and the blankets and everything else I bought to fill it with. But mostly I think about the love we filled that room with. The love we have for a child we will never have.
I don’t think God is even a man anymore.
He’s a monster.
No God I love would ever allow me to hurt this much.
“Birdie.” Winter’s voice sounds from the doorway.
I stop what I’m doing and turn to him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What are you doing?”
It’s pretty obvious what I’m doing: I’m dismantling the cot. But I know that’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking why I’m doing it four days after losing our baby. He went into the clubhouse today for the first time since my miscarriage. I wandered around the house, lost, after he left. The numbness I’ve had inside me since I discovered the blood in our bed refuses to leave. I’m not sure it ever will. I felt it more keenly without Winter home and spent hours crying. When I managed to stop the tears, I found myself in here with a burning need to get rid of this cot.
“We don’t need this anymore,” I say.
“Yeah, but you could have left it for me.”
“Why? Why should you have to do all the shitty jobs? That’s not fair to you.” He’s been taking care of all the shitty jobs for seven long years; it’s time I handled something for him.
He moves closer to me. “What’s going on, angel?”
“Nothing’s going on; I just want to get this out of here. It’s time for us to start our new life.”
“Fuck, baby.” His eyes flash with concern. “It’s been four days. There’s no need to rush shit.”
I exhale a long breath. “I’m exhausted by it all. You are too. I just want it all out of our lives.”
“It all?”
I throw my arms up. “All this baby stuff. All the IVF stuff. All of it! We’re done. We agreed this was our last shot. It failed. Let’s move the fuck on.”
The concern in his eyes intensifies. He probably thinks I’ve finally lost my ever-loving mind. I might have; who the fuck knows anymore. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m finally done with IVF. I can’t go through this again and neither can Winter. He’s as broken as I am, and I hate seeing him so devastated.