Every morning, I wake up to the gentle cries of Lucy. Shes so tiny, so absolutely perfect. Her little fingers wrap around mine when I pick her up, and for a moment it feels like everything in my world makes sense again.
Morning, sweetheart, I whisper as I lift her from her cot. Did you sleep well?
From the kitchen, I can hear Michaels footsteps, heavy and tired. Hes never been much of a talker, but since Lucy arrived, its as if theres a wall between us and he barely says a word.
Talking to yourself again? he mutters from the doorway, wearing that expression I still cant quite read.
Im not talking to myself. Im talking to Lucy.
He sighs and rubs his hand through his hair. Laura, we need to have a proper chat.
Later, I reply, rocking Lucy gently. She needs her breakfast first.
I watch him walk away, and guilt pricks at me. I know Michael is struggling, but Lucy needs me. Shes so vulnerable and relies on me completely.
During the day, when hes at work, Lucy and I have our own rhythm. I sing nursery rhymes to her, give her baths with the softest touch, read her stories. She looks up at me with those bright, searching eyes, and I feel as if she understands everything.
Your dad will love you, I tell her as I change her nappy. He just needs a bit more time, thats all.
At night, when Michael comes home, I always find a reason to take her somewhere else. He never looks at her, never asks about her. Sometimes, I hear him crying in the bathroom, and I just cant figure out why.
One evening, after putting Lucy to bed, I find Michael sitting on the sofa holding a photograph.
Whats that? I ask quietly.
He looks up, eyes red.
Do you remember this?
Its our scaneight months ago. I remember that day so clearly: the excitement, the plans, the names we picked out together.
Of course, I say, sitting beside him. Its when we found out Lucy was coming.
Michael squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face.
Laura … Lucy isnt here.
What are you talking about? Shes asleep in her room.
No, love. Theres no babys room. No cot. No Lucy.
I leap to my feet. Youre mad! Of course there is! I just put her down!
I run to the room, Michael follows close behind. He flicks the light on.
The room is empty. No cot, no mobiles hanging from the ceiling, no tiny clothes I was sure I’d washed earlier. Just dusty boxes and old furniture.
Lucy I whisper.
We lost Lucy six months ago, Laura, Michael says, voice trembling. At thirty-two weeks. The doctors said there was nothing they could do.
Suddenly, memories crash back in shards: the hospital, the silent monitors, my empty arms.
But I hold her every day I feed her she smiles at me
Michael wraps his arms around me as I collapse.
Youve been holding a blanket, love. Talking to a blanket. I watched you rock it, change its nappy. I kept hoping youd remember, that youd come back to me.
I look at my empty arms, and for the first time in months, they truly feel empty. That weight I thought I carried, those whispers and gigglesgone, vanished like mist.
Lucy my Lucy
I know it hurts, Michael whispers. It hurts me every single day. But we have to keep going, together. Without her, but together.
That night, tears come that I havent cried since the funeral I couldnt let myself remember. I cry for my baby who never made it home, for my husband who watched me slip away and waited quietly for my return, for all those lost months when grief was hidden behind a dream.
But also, I cry because the healing can finally begin.
And Michaels here, waiting for me, just as he always has been.
