The next weeks were messy.
There was no beautiful transformation where I woke up one morning ready to handle everything.
Some days I functioned.
Some days I stood in the laundry room holding one of Mark’s shirts because washing it felt unbearable.
Some nights I slept with the letter on the nightstand.
Some nights I put it in the drawer because seeing it hurt too much.
But I kept going.
I had to.
Our daughter was coming.
My body continued preparing for birth even while my mind kept expecting Mark to walk through the door.
There were moments I resented that.
Then there were moments when feeling the baby move reminded me that the future Mark had been so afraid to miss was still arriving.
When our daughter was finally born, I cried before I even held her properly.
She was here.
Mark wasn’t.
Both truths existed together.
