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No.

I walk toward it slowly, all that anger suddenly disappearing beneath something that hurts so much more.

The tiny blanket is still folded over the side, and when I reach out and touch it, the fabric is soft beneath my fingers.

So fucking soft.

Damiano wanted kids.

So did I.

We talked about names once, lying in bed on a Sunday morning, laughing because every name I liked reminded him of some cousin he hated and every name he liked reminded me of somebody from school.

We thought we had time.

My fingers curl around the blanket.

We thought we had so much fucking time.

I let it go and take a step back, raising the bat.

But I can't swing.

My arms won't move.

Because I don't hate this.

I wanted this.

I wanted tiny socks on the floor and sleepless nights and a baby with his father's blue eyes. I wanted Damiano standing in a kitchen with a baby on his hip, teaching our children to make pasta before they were tall enough to reach the counter.

I wanted all of it.

And I never even got the chance to lose it because it never got the chance to exist.

A sob catches in my throat.

Then I swing.

The bat hits wood, and I swing again. And again.

The crib splinters beneath every strike, but unlike the plates, unlike the bottles, unlike the lamp, this doesn't feel good.

It hurts.

I keep going anyway, hitting it until the tiny blanket lies among broken pieces of wood and I stumble backward, my chest heaving.

And then I see it.

AML.

Those fucking cells.

I stare at the canvas.

Three letters.

Three fucking letters that walked into a doctor's office with us and destroyed everything.