I didn’t even register Claire saying that she had to change Jacob’s diaper. I didn’t hear when she said goodbye and hung up. I didn’t say anything. Not because I had nothing to say… but because the scream sitting in my throat would’ve torn through both of us. She didn’t say my name. Not “Mom.” Not “Mama.”
After we hung up, I walked into the spare bedroom. The one I’d painted in soft greens and blues. The one with the rocking chair I picked up secondhand and reupholstered myself. The one I’d turned into a nursery for when the baby came to stay.
There was a hand-knit blanket folded over the crib. I’d made it one row at a time after work, eyes burning from a long shift but heart full of hope. There was a tiny silver rattle, an heirloom from my mother’s side. I’d polished it with lemon and cloth until it gleamed.
I let myself feel all of it. The rejection. The erasure. The shame of being treated like a stain on her new, tidy life. And then I packed everything into a box.
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