“A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it, and they go from day to day as if it hadn’t happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.”
“How’s it going?” he asked me, walking into the room.
“Fine,” I lied, staring down at the tax return I was completing.
I sensed his sidelong glance, but to his credit, he said nothing.
“I, um…I just filled out the part on dependents,” I explained, attempting a meager shrug. “It sucks, you know? I can’t even do a simple task anymore without being reminded that my child just died.”
Silently, he dried his hands on a towel, then walked around the kitchen counter to embrace me, where I crumpled up into a ball of broken tears.
“Were there any changes in dependents?” the tax form had read.
No…I’d marked the box with shaking hands.
I hated them for asking.
But I hated myself more…for answering.
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