But, mostly, I just miss her. It’s as though I’m her missing her life. I try to explain it but even Troy looks at me blankly. I feel sad like I know Mia would feel at not getting to live the rest of her own life. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know she died. I mourn Mia as though I’m Mia mourning her own life. There. Does that say it? I mourn the loss of her years with Marc, the unborn babies, the fascinating cases she’ll never try, the great books she never read, the glorious food she didn’t get to eat, the places she never visited, the love not made. All of it.

My thoughts ramble and always come back to this point. How unfair it is for her.

4:45.

And then I fall asleep.

“Mommymommymommymommy,” Rachel calls.

6:01.

Rachel’s arms are stretched for me to pick her up. She jumps up and down in her crib, her mouth open, laughing at the sight of me. I feel the sweetness of baby warmth as I inhale her aroma. Her hair, so silky and fine, tickles my cheek.

I hug her tight to me, so tight, as though I can squeeze extra life into her and protect her from all harm.

“I love you, Mommy,” she says. “Eat granola?”

“Sure. With cherries and walnuts in it.”

“Yipppeeee.”

I stand her on her changing table and unbutton the crotch of her PJs. “Think you’re old enough for big girl panties? Like Mommy wears? Want to try them?”

“Like Mommy?”

“Just like Mommy.” We’ve been preparing for this day, and she’s gone in her potty a few times.

“Yeah.” Her eyes widen and I reach down to the shelf and grab the pull-ups that have been waiting for her. I put them on her and lift her from the changing table.

“Okay. Let’s see you pull them down.” I know she can do this and she does.

“See, Mommy, no problem.”

“Okay, so when you have to go, tell Mommy and I’ll help you. Or just go on your own.”

“Eat now?”

She always wakes up starved. I carry her potty to the dining room with us. She walks down the stairs one foot at a time, holding on to the railing. Rachel thinks about each step before she makes it. Jumping into the swimming pool into my waiting arms was uncharacteristic of her, as she is usually so cautious.

“You’re my little mermaid,” I said, laughing.