A/N: This was a spur of the moment thing that I shouldn't have written. I still have to write the next chapter of "Desire" and have other requests to finish. Temptation, however, is something I always give in to – which may or may not be a bad thing all the time.
"An angel in the book of life wrote down my baby's birth, then whispered as she closed the book, 'Too beautiful for Earth'."
Her birthday would've been May 16th, 1948.
Her name would've been Alice Ann Curtis.
And her end shall be forever imprinted on your mind.
On September 14th, 1947, you feel your strawberry blonde hair being gently lifted up from behind as you continue to vomit out your breakfast into the toilet. You instantly know it's your husband – no one else is in the house asides from your one-year-old son, and you could recognize your husband's tender touch anywhere at anytime.
"Honey, do you – do you think that . . ." His smooth baritone voice pauses as you lift your head up and groan. He knows that you realize what he means; the bloating, the cramping, the mood swings, and the constant morning sickness make it obvious.
You nod your head. It was time for a trip to the doctor's office.
September 17th is the scheduled date for your appointment to visit the doctor. Your husband took a few hours off work to watch yours and his son while you're gone.
As you stand outside the door leading to the hospital, you take a deep breath. You mentally prepare yourself for whatever may be said, but you already know the truth.
It just needs to be official now.
You try not to squeal in absolute joy and delight as your husband takes you in his long arms and spins you around, but you still do.
When you're put back down on the ground, you notice your son curiously watching you from his high chair with his big, pale blue-green eyes. He smiles when you pick him up and bounce him on your hip softly.
"You're gonna have a new baby brother or sister," you coo in his ear. You, of course, realize that he has no idea what you're saying, but you tell him it anyway.
He deserves a right to know.
It's in the middle of October and you're two months pregnant. As you casually swing your giddy son on one of the swings at the park, you idly think that the rest of September passed by much too quickly for your taste.
"Lillian, how are you?" You turn around at the familiar and soft voice and see Grace Randle, one of your neighbors, standing a few feet away from you.
"Hello, Grace. I'm good, how 'bout you?" you smoothly and politely reply, flashing her a genial grin. You stop swinging your son and scoop him up in your arms, ignoring his grabby hands that are just itching to pull your curly hair.
"I'm alright," Grace says in her Northern accent that you can never get used to. She smiles down kindly at your son, her dark eyes having a light gleam in them. You've always known that she's had a soft spot for children.
There's a pause for a few minutes, both of you not knowing what to say. Grace then breaks it by eyeing your slightly protruding belly and asking, "So you're pregnant again?"
You nod a couple of times. The next thing you do is shift your son to the opposite side so he has less of a chance of grabbing your blonde hair.
". . . Have you thought about what gender it might be? You know, from the old wives tales?" You shake your head at her question, furrowing your eyebrows as you give her a confused expression. Grace, looking a bit shocked, immediately asks, "You don't know what the old wives tales are?"
After responding 'no', Grace seats you to a park bench and then explains to you all about the old wives tales.
You're five months along and it's January. It's also your son's second birthday and your husband and you are celebrating it with your husband's only sibling, his sister, Emma. You and she get along extremely well, and now you're discussing old wives tales. Ever since Grace told you about them, you've been obsessed with finding out the gender of your baby.
"Well, you're five months along, so it might be too early for some of these tales," Emma says as you and her watch your husband play around with your son.
You nod sagely, knowing this fact already. "I know, but I really think it's gonna be a girl," you begin excitedly, "I've had a sweet cravin' lately, been extra moody, my belly's big and round, my face's fuller and rounder, and I've been havin' a lot of mornin' sickness. It all points to a girl!"
"Well, it looks like it might just be a baby girl! Have y'all talked 'bout names yet?" asks Emma, flicking some of her dark brown hair over her shoulder.
"Not yet," is all you say. However, you think in your mind that you hope your husband lets you decide on naming the baby after your own deceased little sister. After all, he did name your son after himself.
Six months along now. You're now absolutely sure the baby's a girl. Your husband, not one for doubting wives tales and making you cross, also believes you. In fact, you've both decided on the perfect name for the baby.
Alice Ann Curtis – after your late sister and mother.
You're still six months along and ecstatic for the little girl to be born. You've marked down the date that the doctor expects the baby to be born on – May 16th, 1948.
It's one of the happiest days in your life now.
May 16th is one of the worst days of your life now.
You used to be seven months along. You used to have a big, round belly. You used to be happy.
Now, your stomach is as flat as a pancake and you're as depressed as depressed can be.
The year is 1964.
You realize that your thoughts had been very vague and gloomy in 1948. You think it's excusable, though, because you were very, very bitter and distressed over the loss of your baby girl.
The thing, though, is that you still think the baby would've been a girl, even though there's no possible way of knowing. The baby had died inside of you – a stillborn, the doctor had told a melancholy you and your shocked husband.
Although you have three beautiful, healthy, and intelligent sons that you love with all of your heart now, you still miss and wonder what life would've been like with your little girl. You imagine that she looks just like your baby sister did as a kid.
And May 16th isn't such a bad date anymore. You're still very sad on it – your sons always ask you why you're so quiet and gloomy on that date – but you can handle it. You love that date just like your sons' birthdays, even if it's not a particularly happy and cheerful day.
One day, though, you'll tell your sons about Alice.
After all, they deserve a right to know.
It's 1966 now.
You're in a car with your husband.
Both of you are currently dying.
And as you are dying, your life flashes before your eyes. You see your wonderful sons, your loving husband, your amazing parents and Alice, who've coincidently died in a car crash as well, Emma, who died last year by the hands of a murderer, and then, you imagine her.
Alice Ann Curtis. She's probably up in heaven now, most likely waiting for your arrival. You like to imagine that your mother and father took care of your little girl until you and your husband died.
You accept your fate now, even though you love and desperately want your sons. You regret that you've never told them about their sister. But you know you can't stop dying now. You think of all the people who await you in heaven – including Alice Ann and your own baby sister, who you have not seen in over twenty years.
You embrace your death and anticipate heaven.
They're waiting for you.