I'm here again.
I'm here.
The wind is still cold, and it is still burning my cheeks, and the rain is still falling, and my hair is still wet, but there's something different now.
You got your way, y'know.
I'm sure you know.
You got your way and now I'm pregnant. You left me with a little piece of you, and I wish I could say that it makes me happy, but I can't.
It makes me hate you more.
I don't want a little piece of you. I want all of you. I want you here.
I can't do this by myself, Burke.
I think I did an apt job of proving that today.
About that, y'know...if you could just ignore it. It was weakness, it was ignorance. I don't know what it was, but you left me, so I think I get at least one pass, because the guilt can eat enough at me for the both of us.
Meredith is in the car, and I know that I shouldn't stay long, but just being here...by you. It makes me feel a little better, even though you'll never talk back.
Maybe it's my punishment for making you do all the talking, making you take all the steps while you were here.
If I knew why, I promise if I had a chance to do it all over again, I'd do so many things differently.
I'd change everything about me if it meant I could just have more time with you.
Oh, God...Burke.
How could you leave me with a baby?
How could you leave me with such a huge responsibility? Such a big thing to do?
I have to raise this, and make sure that it doesn't end up fucked up. That it doesn't need years of therapy.
What am I supposed to tell it about it's daddy? Where it's daddy is?
How do you tell a child that it's father died before it was ever even thought of? That it was just a freak cosmic accident that it ever came about?
It's first steps would be bitter because you wouldn't be there to film it.
The first time that it uses monosyllabic speech and says 'da-da-da-da' it will kill me just a little more to tell him that it doesn't have one.
There won't ever be a family picture, or a family dinner, or a birthday party that isn't wrought with sadness because you aren't here to see it.
And who's supposed to hold my hand and tell me that I'm doing a good job when I'm in labor, tell me that if I could hold on just a little longer that it will all be overwith?
Tell me that.
Tell me what the hell you were thinking when you gave up on me. When you left me alone to deal with this.
Though I can talk, and pretend like I'm at war with myself over what to do with this child, you and I both know that I owe you this.
I know that even though this kid isn't a replacement, and I'll never feel whole again, I know it's the last living and breathing piece of you, and I couldn't ever push that away.
I pushed you away enough in life.