My friends almost live at my house. They’re taking the kids out, inviting them for dinner and play dates, trips to the park and the movie theater. They’re bringing me my favorite lentil soup from Cucina Cucina and chicken enchiladas from Ooba’s. There are flowers next to my bed and more on the kitchen counter. And even if Kris and Nic and Anne gave me hell for seeing Kai, they’re also being incredibly gentle with me now as I try to deal with the wild emotions and even wilder hormones.

I really wanted this baby.

I really got excited about having a one-last-chance baby, an unexpected, unplanned, and miraculous little human being in my arms again. A baby at forty.

I cover my face as the tears start all over again.

I’ve miscarried before, twice before, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t ease any of the shock or the grief. Making babies has never been easy for me, but somehow the hard work, the morning sickness and aches and cranky moods, just made the wonder of delivering a baby all the more incredible. To think something so good can come from so much yuck.

I try to catch my breath, the relentless tears making it hard to breathe. I have to get a grip. Have to accept it. But I can’t. Not yet.

I want to mourn for this baby. I want to mourn for me.

I want to be angry that I’ve no control now, no control over the end. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that love dies, and marriages fail, and babies can’t go full term. It’s not fair that we have to just suck it up and adapt, accept. It’s not fair that life hurts.

I drag my pillow over my head. My God, I’m worse than the kids.

Oh, who am I kidding? I am a kid, just with wrinkled skin on the outside. I’ve never grown up, and you know, I don’t know that I ever want to grow up if it means losing the part of me I love best. And what this last year taught me was that I’m just a girl in a grown-up body. I’m silly, sarcastic, romantic, optimistic.

This year has taught me I’m alive, not dead.

This year has been both the best and worst year in recent memory.

Slowly, I drag the pillow off my head to hold it close against my chest instead.

Losing the baby makes everything easier.

Losing the baby makes life tidy again.

I should be glad for that. No difficult explanations to family and friends, no awkward answers to strangers, no disgust from Daniel, no financial burden or struggling on my part.

No, the future is familiar again. The unknown has become more known. I’m traveling the path already traveled.