I'm having an angry night.

People who abuse their children were allowed to see them grow and live. I, however, was not.

I should still be going to get ultrasounds. I would know by now we were going to have a boy. We'd be buying little boy toys, and buying little boy clothes. Showers would be planned. I should be bigger and round and my belly should be full and hard.

Instead, I am left with an empty house, an empty nursery, and an empty womb.

I have to look not at birth photos, but at post-mortem pictures to remind myself what he looked like.

Part of me died then, and while some days I can pretend to myself and everyone else that it's ok, it's not. I don't know how to recover.

I know all the consolations, because I've told them to myself and everyone else a million times. Yes, he's in Heaven. Yes, he's at peace. Yes, he had a pain-free life. No . . .I don't feel better.

My arms ache for him. My ears want to hear his cries. I want to be tired from lack of sleep, not because I'm missing him, but because he needs me.

I can pretend it's all okay. Tonight I just don't feel like it, because I'm angry.