I sat in the dark tonight, staring at the keyboard for ten minutes before the first sentence slipped out.
The baby’s gone. Smaller than the palm of my hand. Gone. I can’t even bring myself to say dead. It is painful, gut-wrenchingly painful to say the baby is dead. I don’t know whether to remember or to forget how the bump on her stomach felt. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m mourning a niece or a nephew or the endless possibilities of what that baby could’ve been.
I thought I was stronger than this, but grief is rotting my insides like the dead fetus inside my sister’s uterus. I don’t know how she’s feeling because I can’t get over how I’m feeling.
This moment, right now, is the worst moment of my life so far.