She has kind eyes and a gentle manner, this woman tasked with sitting across from us to listen. She is patient and waits out the tears, tells us that every single thing, both the horrible and the hopeful, are indeed normal. I’ll go back.

I have the love of a remarkably brave and endlessly caring man. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.

We’re spending too much on the high end gym club in our office building, but I’m looking forward to being physically exhausted enough to sleep through the night more often. And if my marshmallow-like, pregnancy-marked middle shrinks even a little in the process, then all the better. I stare at the stretch marks in the mirror every morning and can’t bring myself to hate them. They were part of her journey here.

That when I occasionally remember to pause and turn my face toward the lately fleeting warmth of the sun, her cheeks are still in my own. If I just hold it out, her tiny hand will still curl around my finger for the strength I continue to seek.

I can’t hold her or protect the way I still ache to, and I may hate the world for it, but every detail of her perfect little being is etched permanently in my memory, like a fresh and vibrant tattoo across my broken heart.

I’m trying as hard as I can.