She hangs up the phone, feeling somewhat numb. She goes into the closet and get that box of stuff from the first few weeks of that troubled failed pregnancy. A journal with only 10 entries, a copy of Motherhood magazine, and most treasured, an ultrasound with a vague outline of a developing little girl. She imagines her sweet daughter, who would have been almost 2, dressed up as a Christmas princess, laughing with her family on Christmas Day.

After the miscarriage, people were supportive and empathetic but life goes on and people lose track of those who are grieving. So the almost mother found herself increasingly isolated from her friends who couldn’t understand her depression and had families of their own to focus on.

Then her husband left, confused and sad himself, but instead focusing his grief on younger women who he thought could bring his youth back. He ended up with Melody, that whore from his office, who just announced on Facebook that she’s pregnant with his child. Maybe she’ll give him the daughter he always wanted.

The emptiness starts to sink in and she can’t even enjoy the crappy Christmas movies that she put on to distract herself, so she just goes into bed and cries herself to sleep.

That night she dreams of her sweet daughter that never was.