Every morning, I wake to the soft cries of Emily. Shes so tiny, so perfect. Her little fingers curl around mine when I hold her, and for a moment, the world makes sense again.
“Good morning, my love,” I whisper, lifting her from her cot. “Did you sleep well?”
From the kitchen, I hear the heavy footsteps of James. Hes always been a man of few words, but since Emily was born, hes grown even more distant.
“Talking to yourself again?” he says from the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“Im not talking to myself. Im talking to Emily.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Charlotte, we need to talk.”
“Later,” I reply, rocking her gently. “I need to feed her first.”
I watch him walk away, guilt prickling at my chest. I know James is struggling, but Emily needs me. Shes so fragile, so dependent.
During the day, while hes at work, Emily and I have our routine. I sing her lullabies, bathe her with care, read her stories. She listens with wide, shining eyes, as if she understands every word.
“Your daddy will love you,” I tell her while changing her nappy. “He just needs time to adjust.”
When James comes home in the evening, I always find an excuse to take her to another room. He never looks at her, never asks about her. Sometimes, I hear him crying in the bathroom, and I dont understand why.
One night, after putting Emily to bed, I find James on the sofa, holding a photograph.
“Whats that?” I ask.
He looks up, his eyes red. “Do you remember this?”
Its the scan. Our first scan, eight months ago. I remember that daythe excitement, the plans, the names we chose together.
“Of course I remember,” I say, sitting beside him. “Thats when we found out about Emily.”
James closes his eyes, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Charlotte Emily isnt here.”
“What are you talking about? Shes asleep in her room.”
“No, love. There is no nursery. No cot. No Emily.”
I jump up. “Youre mad! Of course shes here! I just put her down!”
I rush to the room, but James follows. When I open the door, he flicks on the light.
The room is empty. No cot, no dangling mobiles, no tiny clothes I swore Id washed that morning. Just dusty boxes and old furniture.
“Emily” I whisper.
“We lost her six months ago, Charlotte,” James says, his voice breaking. “At 32 weeks. Dont you remember? The umbilical cord the doctors said there was nothing they could do.”
The memories return like shards of glassthe hospital, the silent monitors, my empty arms.
“But I hold her every day I feed her she smiles at me”
James pulls me close as I collapse. “Youve been holding a blanket, love. Talking to a blanket. Ive watched you rock her, change her nappy. Ive waited for you to remember, to come back to me.”
I look at my empty arms and, for the first time in months, truly feel their emptiness. The weight I thought I carried, the whispers I thought I heardall vanish like smoke.
“Emily my Emily”
“I know it hurts,” James murmurs. “It hurts me every day too. But we have to keep going. Without her, but together.”
That night, I cry for the first time since the funeral I didnt remember attending. I cry for the baby who never came home, for the husband who watched me disappear into a fantasy and waited patiently for my return, for all those months stolen from real grief.
But I also cry with relief, because at last, I can begin to heal.
And James is here, waiting for me, just as he always was.
Grief is a shadow that lingers, but lovelove is the light that guides us back.
