She’d had four of them.
All at various stages in gestational aging, one as far as thirty weeks. Four losses, four casualties, four periods of grieving that felt like death itself. Knives to her stomach, ripping at her hair, her heart rung dry. But then she’d snap out of it and realize she was just sitting, alone, no knife in hand, no hair in hand, just sitting, spent. Four before she stopped, before she let the idea fall away, before she tucked it away like an old, beloved sweater that no longer fit but she couldn’t bear to toss out.