Bereavement, n

I think this broke you a little bit; irreparably damaged a piece of your heart and soul. The nurse said that it wasn't our fault, that these things just happen sometimes, but I think you placed the blame upon yourself regardless, and even I have to admit what she told us sounded rehearsed and fake. She suggested that we have a funeral for the foetus that we lost, that we dig a hole in our card and bury letters that we wanted our child to have. I didn't think that it was a bad idea, that it must help some people come to terms with the idea of losing whatever they had; I was eager to try it – I was eager to try anything that might help Hermione. She, however, politely declined the idea and that was that.

I took you home and made you a cup of tea. You sat silent and still, in a daze, on the sofa; the tea became cold, untouched on the coffee table, as you continued to stare at the wall. I sat closely beside you; I knew that this was where my actions would affect the rest of the future that we had together, but I don't think that you recognised that I was there. You did not say a word to me or anyone for days.

That was until I came home from work one day, and you were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, you appeared, arms laden with the small things we had already brought for our child as eager first-time parents; the corner of your mouth quirked up a bit and you moved past me to exit the house. "I'm done crying," you said.

I don't think you were, really, at that point, and I wished that I had pushed for the funeral idea, but I let you be as best as I could. You put on a cool and brave façade, making it seem almost like you were the same person as before, but on some level I think that we both knew that you weren't. I don't think that I was either.