Our lives are a series of stories, some short, some long, some with epic arcs, but mostly vignettes connected with a common theme: our selves.
Zoe’s first story began with an ending: the miscarriage of my first pregnancy. This will probably be the only time I talk about it because, truth be told, I talked about it enough when it happened and at this point it just feels gratuitous. Also: it’s done.
But I also don’t like pretending it didn’t happen; that doesn’t seem fair to the kid-who-could-have-been, even if it never grew enough to have eyes or a heart or a voice.