She never heard her baby cry. That was the first thing that broke her.

The room was full of movement—doctors speaking quickly, machines beeping, hands pressing and lifting—but there was no sound she had been waiting nine months for. No tiny voice. No first breath.

Someone finally said the words softly, as if volume could soften the truth:
“We’re so sorry.”

Her son was gone before she ever got to hold him.

In the days that followed, her body ached in cruel ways. Her arms felt empty but heavy, as if they were still meant to carry someone. Milk came in anyway. Life insisted on continuing, even though hers felt like it had stopped.

Her husband stood beside her at the funeral in a black suit that didn’t quite fit. He held her hand, but his grip was loose. His eyes wandered. She thought it was grief. She wanted to believe it was grief.