I said thank you, “oh my goodness, it’s perfect,” and “she’ll love this” when someone gave me a soft bunny blanket with satin edges that made my breath catch.
But I was floating.
Somewhere above myself.
Watching from the rafters as this woman with my face opened gifts and held up tiny onesies and said things like, “She’ll look so cute in that,” when all I could picture was Nate’s hands holding something that small.Nate’s voice saying,She will absolutely spit up on that, and I’m still taking fifty pictures.
Kenzie made everyone play games, guess the due date, guess the baby’s weight, and baby bingo.I smiled.I went through the motions.When people laughed, I laughed three seconds late.
At one point, Maggie pressed a small, flat box into my hands.
Inside was a quilt, patchworked from fabrics I recognized.Like a piece from one of my dad’s old work shirts or the square of flannel that looked suspiciously like a shirt Nate used to wear on the farm.
“It’s for when she’s here,” Maggie said, voice trembling.“So she’s wrapped in all the people who love her.”
I sucked in a ragged breath, trying to keep it together.
“Thank you,” I managed, the words shredded.
People cried when I cried, and that made me feel guilty, so I wiped my face, thanked them again, and tried to act like my heart wasn't splintering.
Someone made a little speech about how strong I was.How proud Nate would be.How this baby was a blessing amid tragedy.
I smiled.
I nodded.
Inside, all I could think was:He should be here.He should be here.He should be here.
By the time the last guest left, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my belly felt twice as heavy.Kenzie herded me toward the truck while the others loaded gifts into the back.
“You did good,” she whispered, slipping her arm through mine.
“I feel like I just survived a tornado made of diapers,” I muttered.
“And cupcakes.Don’t forget the cupcakes.”
She tried to make me laugh.I tried for her, but it came out thin and brittle.
We pulled into my driveway just as the sky started deepening from blue to lavender.My porch looked the same as always, and that felt like a small mercy.
Something quiet, familiar, stable and mine.
Maggie and John pulled in behind us.
“Do you want us to bring everything in,” Maggie asked gently, “or leave it in the truck for tomorrow?”
“Let’s just get it inside,” I said.“I’ll sort it later.”
Later, later, later.I lived in later.Nothing existed in now.
I climbed the steps slowly, one hand on my back, one on my belly.
I opened the front door.
And froze.
The air smelled… different, like fresh paint and new wood.
