I know how she holds the test up to the light, at all angles, how she goes back to check a few times during the day, though she knows it won’t have changed.
I know how excited she feels when that second line finally appears, I know that smile, and how her mind begins to imagine.
I know how she dreams, the smell of their head, those little lips, the surging pain and power, she remembers, she has done this before.
So I know how she feels when they were taken away, because she never expected it, (who does).
I know the emptiness of that moment.
I know how she stays up late, rolled over in bed searching through forums, heart heavy for the other women asking ‘what it means if the line becomes fainter’ and ‘how much blood is normal’. How the blue light reflects her tears, how it’s like the saddest hug.
I know how she feels telling the people who already knew, how she’s grateful when their response doesn’t start with, “at least”, and how she keeps saying “it’s OK”.
I know it’s not.
And the weeks to follow, she’ll be reminded.
By the tests in the bin,
the midwife appointment in her calendar,
the app that notifies her of their fruit size.
And each one will lash at her heart.
I know there may even be a moment where the blame that just hangs in the air with nowhere to go, suddenly turns inward.
I know that next time, when that second line appears, it might grip her with fear before happiness.
I know, because I am her.
And because I know, I’m glad I know you.
(And I’m sorry too.)