For a long time, anger was easier than sorrow.
I blamed the doctors.
I blamed the hospital.
I blamed myself for every decision I had made during those twelve days.
And I hated anyone who tried to comfort me by saying Maggie was somewhere better.
There had been nowhere better for my daughter.
Her best place had been our kitchen, stealing strawberries while I cooked dinner.
Her best place had been curled between Paul and me during movie nights.
Her best place had been home.
With us.
After Maggie died, Paul and I never had another child.
Two years later, he asked me about it once.
We were lying in bed when he quietly said, “Do you ever think about trying again?”
I stared into the darkness.
“I can’t.”
There was a long silence.
Then Paul reached for my hand.
“Then we won’t.”
That was the end of the conversation.
