At the closet, she grasped the cold, metal handle, slid open the door. White, plastic hangers hung along the rod. Four pairs of footed pajamas, two white, two yellow. Six long-sleeved onesies unsnapped at the diaper. She imagined her son’s downy head slipping through the opening, the tension during those few seconds her baby’s face would be covered by a layer of cotton, the relief that would sweep over her when his chubby cheeks and drooling chin reemerged.

Three light green receiving blankets. For swaddling. The re-creation of the mother’s womb. A new term, a new world for a first-time parent. There’s an art to it, she’d heard, as if wrapping a baby in a blanket was akin to cross-stitching. She had imagined tucking her baby’s limbs inside the blanket, the corner into a fold, the feel of him, bundled up against her chest. A sweet, beautiful cocoon.

A soft brown bear sat alone on the shelf. Its nose was black. A yellow ribbon was tied around its neck. Max purchased it the day they decided to keep the baby, the day their lives took a turn down an unexpected road. She lifted the bear from the shelf, pressed its body against her cheek.

She flicked off the light, shut the closet door. The few paces from the former nursery to her bedroom drained her of her energy. She crawled onto the bed, collapsed over the rumpled quilt. The bear laid next to her, its face directly in front of hers. An image appeared in her mind, her son, his head in the crook of her arm, his tiny toes pressed into her side, his blinking eyes staring directly into hers.

She rolled onto her back. Cracks and fissures ran across the ceiling. Her gaze followed them, each deep crevice sprouting new, thinner limbs. Their home wore its age proudly, demanded their time and attention. They had neglected it, assumed, wrongly, that it could hold itself together for them, even though they couldn’t hold their own marriage together for their house.

Tears budded and burned, rolled down her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. She closed her eyes. Her dream last night had been the same as it had been almost every night since that horrible day: She was back in the ultrasound room. The black-and-white image of her son’s heart blinked steadily on the screen. The doctor congratulated them. Max leaned over, kissed her cheek. She pressed her palm against her belly, felt, she thought, the slightest movement. She woke each morning with a smile on her face, though as soon as she came fully to consciousness, the sadness washed over her again.

Where to put the bear? She glanced around the room. She needed it close, somewhere safe, but she didn’t want to see it every day. She scooted to the end of the bed, knelt on the floor, lifted up the end of the blanket.