“It was last week. I only just realised myself,” Mum says, sounding guilty.
A pang of sadness hits me. Ellenor never speaks of it. But of course, it’s always there. The loss of what could have been. But it hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind. Has it been for her?
“Should I say something to Ellenor?” I ask.
“Oh, darling. Only if she brings it up, I think. Just give her a hug from me. And enjoy your gig tonight.”
“I will. Thanks, Mum.”
I pocket my phone and breathe once, twice.
It was a loss that touched all of us, but I was thirteen. I didn’t understand—not really.
Dad sat me down to explain.“It might not seem strange, but sometimes, you need to step up and be the big sister. And right now, Ellenor needs you. Be patient with her.”
And I was.
We spent days sitting around in pyjamas, marathoningHarry Pottermovies and taking Sorting quizzes. Laughing, eating pizza. But whenever we took a break for the bathroom or fresh air, Ellenor would start crying again. Come Monday morning, Ellenor emerged from the house a new person: someone ready to take on the world.
I haven’t seen her shed a tear since.
She moved back to campus and finished her degree. Meanwhile, the nursery unceremoniously reverted to a bedroom.
Her belongings—gone.
The crib vanished.
But the walls are still baby pink.
I swipe at my eyes. Ellenor will be here soon. I can’t let her see me like this. I need to be strong, like her.
Brandon appears in the hallway. “Hey,” he says softly. “Everything alright?”
I nod. “Yep. Fine. Just Mum checking in.”
I go to move past him, but he stops me, touching my shoulders gently.
“Hold on.” His eyes flick to mine, searching. “You don’t have to tell me, but you look like you need a minute.”
The words are simple, but they undo me. I press a hand to my eyes, fighting tears.
“Ellenor, she…” I falter. “She went through something a long time ago. Lost a baby late in her pregnancy. The ten-year anniversary’s just been.”
His expression sobers. “I’m sorry to hear. That’s a lot to carry.”
His fingertips brush my forearm, then he gives a small, grounding squeeze. He doesn’t let go.
I lean into him, just a little, letting myself take the comfort of that touch. It steadies me, even as a part of me stays braced, wary of falling too far.
“I wonder if she ever held the baby,” I say quietly. “I never asked. I should have. There must be so many things she needed that I didn’t do.”
He doesn’t rush to contradict me, just gives my arm another squeeze, his voice gentle. “It’s not fair to judge yourself with what you know now, not what you knew then.”
He’s right. But does he follow his own advice?
“You love her,” he continues. “That’s all that matters.”
I shake my head. “I think you can love someone and still let them down.”
