Three weeks after burying my newborn son, I gave away everything I’d bought for him to a desperate mother with a baby. For the first time since his death, I slept through the night. But before sunrise, my lawn was covered with dozens of baby strollers—and what waited inside them made no sense at all.
Morning sun filtered through the dusty blinds of Noah’s nursery, laying long, pale stripes across a crib that had never held him.
I stood in the doorway, unable to step inside, unable to walk away.
Three weeks had passed since my little boy died in the hospital.
His little outfits were folded on the changing table where I had left them.
My little boy died in the hospital.
The diapers sat unopened.
The stroller waited in its box by the closet.
Thomas and I assembled it once for a practice run down the hallway, then packed it away again.
Thomas was also gone now.
***
A week ago, I’d stepped into our bedroom and caught him packing.
“You’re really leaving me?” I’d said.
Thomas was also gone now.
“I can’t stay here,” he answered. “Every time I walk past that door, I feel like I’m being buried alive.”
“He was your son, Thomas.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t look at any of it.”
He zipped up his suitcase.
“So you’re walking away… from him. From me. Two weeks after we buried him.”
“I can’t stay here,”
He looked at the carpet.
“I asked you to pack the nursery,” he said quietly. “Weeks ago. You wouldn’t.”
“Because it’s his room. I’m not ready—”
“It’s an empty room, Kate. It’s an empty room and it’s killing both of us.”
“How do you think I feel? I’m the one who carried him. He was alive inside me, kicking and moving, and then he came out into the world and… he was gone.”
“I asked you to pack the nursery,”
“So, what? You want to keep the nursery waiting for his ghost? Like some kind of sick memorial?” He waved one hand in the air. “This is exactly why I can’t stay here anymore.”
He lifted his suitcase and headed for the door.
He paused on the threshold.
“I called a realtor,” he said. “I want to list the house.”
“No!”
“You want to keep the nursery waiting for his ghost?”
“God, Kate! You can’t stay in a place like this alone.”
“Watch me.”
He stared at me over his shoulder.
That look delivered a thousand criticisms and judgements.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my things next week,” he said.
“You can’t take my home!” I yelled after him as he walked away.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my things next week,”
The front door had closed behind him with a soft, final click.
***
I walked into Noah’s room.
I sat on the floor beside the crib, and pressed my forehead against the wooden slats.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered. “I would’ve given anything to keep you here.”
The mobile above the crib swayed a little in the draft from the vent.
“I would’ve given anything to keep you here.”
That night I ate crackers standing over the sink.
I did not turn on the television.
I did not answer my mother’s third phone call.
I walked past the nursery on the way to bed and did not look inside.
I laid down on Thomas’s side of the bed.
Tears didn’t come, and neither did sleep.
I laid down on Thomas’s side of the bed.
***
The drive home from visiting the cemetery blurred together.
Most days had blurred together since the funeral.
I took the long route past the strip mall because being inside the house felt like drowning in slow motion.
That was when I saw her.
A young woman sat on the curb outside the grocery store.
And she wasn’t alone.
That was when I saw her.
A cardboard sign leaned against her leg.
A tiny baby slept against her collarbone in a carrier with straps that looked ready to snap.
I pulled into a parking space three rows away and just… watched.
An hour passed, maybe more.
I lost track of time the way I had been losing track of everything.
My mind reached a decision then, one my heart was not ready for.
A tiny baby slept against her collarbone
Finally, I drove home.
I walked past the closed nursery door six times before I forced myself to turn the handle.
I tiptoed inside and leaned against the back of the recliner I’d bought for nursing Noah.
“You’re never coming home,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’ll never get to be your mom, but I saw another baby today who might need your things. I want to help them… I hope you won’t mind.”
“You’re never coming home,”
The mobile above the crib swayed slightly.
I started packing.
I dragged the stroller out to my car, still in its box.
The giraffe blanket, the onesies, and the diapers all went into bags.
I kept the hat my mom had knitted for him, and the dinosaur onesie he’d worn in the hospital — the only thing he’d ever worn, apart from the “going home” outfit I’d buried him in.
I started packing.
***
When I pulled up beside her again, the young woman looked up slowly.
Her eyes had that flat, guarded expression of someone who had learned not to hope.