By Stephanie Mitchell 
You weren’t planned. The surprise of all surprises, to say the least. But this is not how your story was supposed to end.
There was always something in the back of my mind . . . a quiet wondering if maybe we weren’t quite done.
And your dad, he was giddy. He joked that he had willed you into existence, grinning like he knew all along you were coming.
When those two pink lines showed up at three weeks, I didn’t know if I felt panic or joy.
We were past this stage.
I worried constantly—what would people say?
Another baby? At my age?
With this age gap? Doing the math of graduation years and milestone birthdays.
Didn’t we already have enough? Weren’t we full? Why would we need more?
I worried about work, about logistics, about how it would all fit.
As if that would be the biggest challenge we’d face.
As if any of those questions mattered when it came to you.
And now? All those worries feel so hollow.
You don’t know it until you know it. The weight of silence in a room where there should be life. The look in the nurse’s eyes as you walk into triage, blood pouring down your legs. The desperate pleading in your head, even when you already know the truth.
Twelve weeks.
Long enough to dream.
To imagine the shape of your life inside of ours.
And then one Sunday afternoon, it’s gone.
The guilt hits hard.
For questioning.
For hesitating.
For not telling anyone about you.
For not knowing immediately just how much you were already ours.
And the ache deepens when your child, your oldest, looks at you with teary eyes and says, “You know I would’ve been a good big brother.”
He would have been.
You would’ve been so loved.
To the moms who’ve been here—I see you.
To the ones just arriving—I’m so sorry.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Jenny Albers 
by Her View From Home 
